


Someday Soon I’ll See You (But Now You’re Out Of Sight)

by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Canon LGBTQ Character, Car Accidents, Character Death, Death, Domestic, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Heavy Angst, Injury Recovery, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, Major Character Injury, Married Life, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Protection, Recovery, Whump, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:53:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29410077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays/pseuds/MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays
Summary: Alexander Claremont-Diaz was twenty-eight years old when a car crash took his life.The entire world grieved, and the entire world remembered.But for some people, it wasn’t just a figurehead that died. It was a friend, a brother, a son. A husband. And remembering all of Alex was a hell of a task to undertake.——Or, how six people in Alex’s life work through his death.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz & Liam, Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Beatrice Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Percy "Pez" Okonjo, June Claremont-Diaz & Nora Holleran, June Claremont-Diaz/Nora Holleran, June Claremont-Diaz/Nora Holleran/Percy "Pez" Okonjo, Liam/Spencer (Red White & Royal Blue), Martha Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor/Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Zahra Bankston/Shaan Srivastava
Comments: 134
Kudos: 197





	1. Liam

**Author's Note:**

> Y’all holy fucking shit Casey Mcquiston and I grew up in the same hometown and I’m going to the same college as her majoring in the same thing and I’m looking through old high school records to see if she’s an alumni of where I’m going this is so fucking wild to me  
> Anyways. Have fun (?) with this exploration of grief.

Liam was eating breakfast when he found out.

The bowl of _Trix_ he was eating dry was for his daughter, sure, but he didn’t feel like making actual food. Spencer was the one who handled breakfast, and he was still asleep, and Liam was hungry, so. _Trix_.

He took another bite, scrolling through newsfeed on his cracked phone that he’d meant to get fixed eight months ago. But then his daughter needed extra forms signed to secure the adoption, and that meant a lawyer that cost a fuck ton, and then she had ballet lessons and Girl Scouts and time fell away and nothing ever got done. Still, though, he wouldn’t change it. He loved his daughter, loved his husband, and that was that, phone screen be damned.

He was wondering why all _Trix_ pieces tasted the same despite being different colors when his news app refreshed to show him the top story. He cursed as an article about the newest gossip in Demark’s royal family slipped away, but his eyes read the new headline anyways.

**Former First Son Alexander Claremont-Diaz Declared Deceased On Scene Of Car Accident**

Liam’s went hand slack. His spoon dropped into the bowl with a loud clatter. He read the headline over once, twice, three times, like the letters would change and spell out something different.

He never thought he’d feel the same cold dread as he had when he confessed his _unnatural desires_ to the priest in the confession booth, but this was enough to blast through the ceiling of what he thought he could feel. No, this was something else entirely. Because this wasn’t real, there was no way something like this could have been real.

  
Liam frantically scrolled through the article, searching for something that said _hey, we’re just kidding!_ But it was just more confirmation, a few short paragraphs on Ellen Claremont’s formal statement and Prince Henry being rushed to the hospital in stable condition and more details to come.

Was this all Alex was worth? How was his entire life boiled down to a two-page article in _People?_

_His entire life?_ How had Liam accepted this so quickly? Wasn’t denial supposed to be the first stage of grief, or something? Liam couldn’t remember.

Liam’s phone clattered to the table, the headline staring back up at him in bold, mocking letters. His hands wound up in his hair, pulling on the strands like it would lift his brain to understanding. Because none of this made sense. None of it made any fucking _sense_.

Texts started to flood his phone, people who knew Liam and Alex were connected and wanted more details, updates, anything. The dozens of overlapping _dings_ cut through the fragile silence. Liam tried to turn off the volume, but his hands were shaking and fumbling and he dropped his phone. The screen finally shattered as it hit the ground, and the notifications stopped with the sound of breaking glass.

Liam stared at his phone on the tile, glass shards surrounding it like a halo. Before he could even think, he flung his foot out and kicked the phone across the kitchen floor. It skidded until it crashed into the wall, a mangled machine, cutting him off from the outside world.

The outside world might as well have been gone. For all Liam knew, if he pulled the curtain back on the small kitchen window over the sink, all he would see was an endless void.   
  


God, how long had it been since they had last spoken? A month? Two? Time slipped away, just as it always did, and they had to continue with their lives. Liam had just—just assumed he’d see Alex again next time he was in town, and they could catch up, bitch about their respective husbands and coworkers and overbearing mothers who insisted on calling them daily even though they were both twenty-eight years fucking old. Fuck, twenty-eight. Alex was dead and he was only _twenty-eight_.

Liam wanted to lunge for his phone, call Alex, go through their text messages, find something, anything to hold onto, because if he could keep his grip on even a single blade of grass he wouldn’t fall off the world. But no, this was real. He couldn’t delve into a screen to try and deny it. Alex, his first love, the first son, first bisexual White House resident, first _everything._ And now he was gone. He would never be a first anything ever again.

  
——

Liam remembered the first time he’d ever seen Alex.

His freshman year of high school, the first day of the year. Liam was still five-foot-seven, his face acne ridden and holding tightly onto traces of baby fat.

He had crept into his AP Human Geography class, choosing a desk in nestled into the back corner. He recognized no one from the crowd of faces, all chattering like they were already best friends. He set his bag down with a sigh and prepared himself for a boring, lonely semester.

That was when a short Hispanic boy dropped into the seat next to him, fist-bumping some sophomore athlete as he went by.

He turned to Liam. “No clue who that guy was,” he said. “I just like fist bumps.”

Liam smiled at the boy’s confident laugh. A brand new school, brand new place, and he was already part of the in-crowd. Liam decided right then that this boy was not going to be his friend. He was just too cool.

The boy, however, didn’t seem to agree. “I’m Alex,” he said as he pulled out a meticulously-organized binder somehow already filled with scribbled notes.

”Liam,” Liam replied.

”Nice. I fuck with names that start with L.”

Liam let out a genuine laugh at that and forgot that he was supposed to be a million social classes away from this guy. “Thanks, I guess? I don’t fuck with A names, but whatever.”

”Oh, so it’s gonna be like that. Alright, Liam. You’re not getting a single homework answer from me this year.”

”Oh, yeah?” Liam taunted. “Then when I steal my dad’s whiskey and bring it to school in a water bottle, I’m not giving you a single swig.”

”I might have to reevaluate,” Alex said. Liam laughed again. Something started to bubble beneath his sternum, the same something that he had confessed to a priest over the Summer. Fuck that priest. This was nice.

The teacher came in, then, and started talking. Alex took notes with such focus someone would have thought he was writing down nuclear launch codes instead of syllabus annotations. Not that Liam was watching him, or anything.

As class packed up, Liam noticed Alex watching him with intensity. His ears turned red under his gaze. “What?” He asked.

”Did you go to Westdale Elementary?”

Liam blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Why?”

Alex laughed and clapped his hands together. “Dude, holy shit, I knew I recognized you! I went there for, like, a year in fourth grade! Didn’t we sit next to each other on the bus?”

Liam’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, my God, that was _you_? How the hell did you remember that?”

”I dunno. I remember most things better than I should.”

Liam shrugged as they started out the room. “I mean, yeah. I only remember people if they did something big. Like, I don’t know...” He trailed off and looked Alex straight in the face. “Wait. Didn’t you shit your pants on the way to one of the field trips?”

Alex flung his hands into the air. “Oh, _come on!_ This is never going to stop haunting me! I swear to fucking God, it was the kid next to me, I didn’t shit my pants.”

”Sure, man,” Liam said. “Tell yourself whatever you want.”

Alex jostled his shoulder and started to walk off to a different wing.

”I’ll see you at lunch,” he called over his shoulder. “And fuck you!”  
  


Liam laughed.   
  


Now he had a friend.

—

”Daddy?” A small voice cut through the tense kitchen air. Liam whirled around and saw his daughter, Brianna, standing in the doorway, tiny in her unicorn pajamas.

She walked over to Liam, her little head cocked to the side, her eyes bright and inquisitive. She didn’t have a clue what was happening.

Liam wiped his face and forced a shaky smile. “Hey, Doodlebug,” he said. “How did you sleep?”

”Are you okay?” She asked. “You’re crying.”

Liam hadn’t realized. But he touched his cheek and, sure enough, his fingertips came away wet. He sniffed. “I’m alright. Go—go wake up your Pops, alright? Then you can have some TV time before breakfast.”  
  


Her face lit up at the promise of an unexpected _Frozen_ session. She nodded and scampered down the hallway.

Liam put his head in his hands and waited for Spencer to arrive. The darkness of his palms was filled with short, dark hair, brown eyes, perfectly pressed chinos. It had been so long since he had seen them. It would be a lifetime until he saw them again.

  
——

Liam’s mind found its way to sophomore year.

He was sitting on the bleachers, waiting for Alex to finish lacrosse practice before they went to their favorite diner together to study. He should have been doing his chemistry homework, but his eyes kept flitting back to Alex on the field.

His hair was longer than normal, curling around his ears, he’d been too busy to get it cut. His forehead shone with sweat, and his muscles ripples beneath his uniform as he caught the ball and threw it, or whatever the fuck the rules of lacrosse were.

Liam had long since admitted to himself that Alex was hot, he wasn’t about to deny it. Not like anyone else did—Alex was hooking up with a new girl every other month at this point. It would honestly be weirder to pretend that Alex _wasn’t_ attractive.

But Alex was straight, so it would only be watching, for Liam. He was alright with that—he always just watched from the sidelines, cheering his friends on, taking pictures for yearbook from the outside. He was content, here. Happy.

Alex jogged over to Liam, a dumb smile on his face that made Liam’s heart flutter a little too much. But Alex was smart, and that’s why his eyes went calculating and intense when he saw Liam’s empty notebook.

”Hey,” he said, packing away his gear, “you alright? You didn’t get shit done.”

Liam shook his head back into clarity. “No, yeah, it’s fine. I’m good. Ready to go?”

Alex nodded, and they started to walking, talking about nothing. Liam wondered, sometimes, if Alex knew the truth of his soul, or even wanted to, or if it would always just be banter. Just jokes and careers and ‘I’m so fucking sick of Mrs. Cao.’

A large man slammed into Liam on the sidewalk, knocking him down to the concrete. The wind threw itself out of his lungs as his back collided with the ground.

Alex knelt next to him, staring incredulously after the man, who hadn’t even paused. “What the hell, man?” He called. The man didn’t stop. Alex raised his voice. “What, you just had to push over a fucking sixteen year old?”

The man turned, his face hard. “Your friend was in my way. Sorry.” His tone indicated that he was anything but.

Liam waved Alex away. He tried to tell him it was fine, they should just go, but he still was struggling to draw in a breath.

Alex stood. “So you just go running down kids, or something? Are you that much of a jackass?”

The man’s face turned a deep red and he stomped up to Alex. Alex stuck out his chin and kept eye contact, as if the man didn’t have five inches and at least five years on him.

”You got a problem, you little asshole?” The man growled.

”Uh, yeah. You’re a dick. How many teenagers did you have to fuck up before you hit someone who would say something? Is your dick that small, man?”

The main raised his fist, but he didn’t go for Alex. He bent down and grabbed the front of Liam’s shirt, hefting him to his feet. “You wanna say that again?” He asked. Liam gulped when the man’s beefy knuckles appeared an inch away from his face.

Before Liam could think of something awesome and witty to say, the hand on his shirt was gone, leaving him stumbling for purchase. Once he found his footage, he looked at the scene in front of him:

The man, flat on the ground, his hand clutching a nose that was starting to stream blood. And Alex, breathing hard, his right hand still curled in a hooked fist.

Alex’s eyes widened and he cut his gaze over to Liam. “Come on, man,” he said, more to himself than to Liam. Before Liam could protest, Alex had grabbed his wrist and was dragging him away with the speed of lacrosse captain.

They ducked into a pizzeria around the corner, breathing hard. Alex collapsed onto a bench in the waiting area, hauling Liam down with him. Liam noticed with a start that Alex was still holding onto him.

Alex spared Liam a worried glance. Something in Liam’s stomach fluttered at how much he cared. “You alright?”

”Uh, yeah,” Liam said, swallowing. “Yeah, I’m fine. You?”

Alex finally pulled his hand away to inspect his knuckles. Liam pushed down the cloud of disappointment that threatened to rise in him. “I’ll be okay. Maybe some bruised fingers.”

  
Liam tried to slow his breathing and calm the adrenaline racing through his veins. “Thanks, Alex,” he said. “That guy was an asshole.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I’m classically trained in dealing with assholes. That was, like, a first level class for me.”

  
“Yeah,” Liam said with a laugh, “But maybe don’t piss them off that much in the first place.”

Alex’s gaze cut to Liam’s, and his eyes were intense, calculating. It hit Liam, again, that it was so easy to forget just how fucking smart Alex was.

”He was being a dick to you. I’m not gonna just let that slide.”

Alex’s tone was serious, with no room for arguments or jokes. Liam had no choice but to nod and look away before those brown eyes bored a hole into his soul.

Liam took the opportunity to examine the place they were in. A gentrified little restaurant, the kind with customizable letter boards on the walls and exposed-bulb lighting. It was bustling with teenagers and young-adults, tapping away at laptops or gossiping with friends.

”I’m tired as hell,” Liam said. “Wanna just eat here?”

Alex scanned the room, and the sharp intensity in his eyes started to fade. He shrugged and stood, extending a hand to help Liam up. “Sure.”

Liam smiled, and for the second time that day, he took Alex’s hand.

——

A warm hand landed on his shoulder. Liam looked up to see Spencer’s unshaven face, his hair missed and his eyes concerned. He must have just come out of their room.

”Liam? What happened?”

Liam opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t say it. How could he? It still didn’t seem real. It didn’t make sense that he couldn’t just tap on Alex’s contact and hear his voice in seconds.

Liam shook his head. “Check the headlines,” he muttered.

Spencer’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he slid his phone out of his pocket. Liam watched as his expression morphed into shock, first, then something far beyond, something incomprehensible to anyone who wasn’t feeling it.

”Oh, Liam,” Spencer said. He wrapped his arms around Liam’s chest, resting his chin on his shoulder. Liam brought his hand up to cover one of Spencer’s. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Liam dwelled in silence for a while, like if he didn’t move or breathe, this little sanctuary would never break. His ribs were made of glass, protected only by the warm cage of Spencer’s arms. He never wanted to leave.

But then _For The First Time In Forever_ started to play from the living room, and Liam took a shaky breath.

”Can you...” he trailed off. Started again. “Can you take Brianna to dance today? I need to make some calls.” His eyes found the scrap heap of what used to be his phone. “And get a new phone, I guess.”

Spencer made a noise of approval. His hands slid away from Liam’s chest. Liam wanted to clutch them back and wrap them around him again, fall into Spencer’s embrace and never leave, but there was a hungry little girl in the living room and an entire world full of frantic reporters in the city. Liam had to keep his life going.

Even though Alex couldn’t.

As Liam got dressed, methodically, absently, he tried to remember his last conversation with Alex. It had been something dumb, he was sure, and he knew it had started with an argument over the local library renovating, Alex excited for change and Liam missing the nostalgia. But he had no clue what they talked about after that. Fuck, if he had already forgotten that, what else would he forget in the coming weeks, months, years. When he was eighty, would he remember the way Alex’s eyes scrunched when he laughed, or how many Adderal he had to take from Liam’s bottle before he noticed?

He started the car. Drove to the closest Apple store. Some of the employees were whispering in frantic, hushed tones. Most were just trying to get through their shift. In the waiting line, his mind drifted again.

——

A knocking on Liam’s bedroom window woke him up in the middle of the night. He bolted upright in bed.

  
The knocking continued, loud enough to wake up his fucking parents. Liam frantically untangled himself from the sheets and rushed to the glass.

On the other side was...was _Alex_ , his hair a mess and his face washed silver in the dim moonlight. He was perched on the little stoop outside of Liam’s window, holding onto the frame above.

Alex gestured to the window lock. Liam hurriedly opened it and Alex came tumbling inside, landing in a heap on the floor. Liam frantically watched for the hall light to flick on as his parents woke up, but no one stirred.  
  


”Alex,” he said in a whisper-shout. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Alex shook his head and sat up, rubbing his shoulder where it collided with Liam’s hardwood floor.

  
“My room is on the _second fucking floor_. How did you even get up here?”

“Climbed,” was all Alex supplied, his voice uneven and low.

”You _climbed_?”

”Yes, man,” Alex said, finally meeting Liam’s gaze. His eyes were red and purely fucking exhausted.

Liam softened. He shut his window and sat down next to Alex on the ground. “Are you...alright?” He asked.

Alex stared at his shoes. “Would I be climbing through your window at midnight if I was alright?” He murmured.

”I don’t know, dude, you’re weird.”

Alex didn’t even smile. He looked so sad, so dull, his usual fire snuffed out. Liam wanted to scream.

Alex took a shaking breath. “I fucking...” He started, dragging a heavy hand down his face. “It’s always been bad. I mean, like, I guess not always, but I’ve called you about it before. My parents have been fighting for years, it’s nothing new, this is nothing new, but I couldn’t sleep because I can never fucking sleep and I snuck into the kitchen to get some whiskey because that helps sometimes and there were _signed fucking divorce papers_ on the document pile. And I—I feel so fucking _stupid_ , too. I knew it was coming, it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but they didn’t even tell me and they’re still in the same bed and I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

Liam exhaled until his lungs were so empty they could have imploded, as if he could expel his confusion and sadness through the air leaving his body and mixing with the crisp night. “So you...you ran all the way here?”

”Walked, some. Took the whiskey bottle with me. I finished it off a few blocks back, dropped the bottle in some rando’s trash can. Is that illegal?”

”Uh...I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know, but like, you’re...I mean...”

Liam trailed off. What the fuck was he supposed to do?

Alex looked back to Liam. His eyes were shining with unshed tears, the same ones that choked his voice as he asked, “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

  
Liam couldn’t answer. Alex continued, his voice almost too quiet to hear. “How is my mom gonna be president, man? I mean, politics, that’s what tore them apart. And—and what if I go into politics, and it kills me, too? What if it tears apart my only fucking chance at love? What if I just...burn out, all alone?”

Just seeing Alex like this made Liam want to cry. It suddenly hit him that he was seventeen, sitting in the room he would one day call his childhood bedroom, trying to talk through a divorce he knew nothing of with his drunk straight crush. It hit him, the huge emptiness of this moment, something he couldn’t fill.

”Alex...” he whispered.

Alex looked at him again, again, again, and this time, he didn’t look away. Liam usually had a hard time reading this enigma of a boy, but he had never been so confused by what he saw in his eyes as right now. There was sadness, and determination, and something else that Liam didn’t have the words to name.

”Alex?” He repeated.

And before Liam could even think, Alex leaned in and grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him. Liam was frozen, trying to understand this, the taste of Maker’s Mark and the feeling of lips, full and dry, and the concept that his straight friend, his straight best friend who was drunk off his ass and emotionally destroyed was fucking _kissing_ him.

He almost pulled away, because this couldn’t end well, there was no way it could, but Liam was weak. Liam was weak, and he gave into what he had always wanted but had been too scared to take. He leaned into it, kissing Alex back with all the passion of the years he had spent thinking about it. Alex made a noise low in his throat, and Liam wanted to chase it.

Liam didn’t know if it was the whiskey on Alex’s tongue or the fucking tongue itself, but he felt drunk, dizzy and tilting on his own axis. He didn’t know what he would make of this in the morning. As Alex’s hand found his chest, he discovered that he didn’t really care.

They kissed for as long as Alex wanted, and it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough for Liam, but eventually Alex pulled away and he was crying, crying into Liam’s shoulder. And Liam didn’t know what to do. So he held his friend as he cried and whispered soothing nothings into his greasy hair and tried not to think about the tangled up mess he was making with every word.

——

Liam bought a replacement phone, had it quickly set up. He hardly remembered the drive home, but as he pulled up, an unmarked van door opened and three reporters spilled out.   
  


Liam made it inside just before they could reach him and slammed the door against their questions.

His new phone rang.

And it didn’t stop for days.

——

  
Alex didn’t call Liam after graduation. Sure, they talked sometimes, but it was never real, not like it used to be. Alex just talked about school and politics and hung up before Liam could even find it in him to give a shit.   
  


The sweet feeling that used to fill his chest whenever he looked at Alex was starting to sour.

He didn’t know the exact moment he gave up on Alex. But he knew the moment he realized he had—a single text that confirmed what Liam had known for ages and hoped he could ignore forever.

It was Valentine’s Day. Liam was, as always, hoping to God above that Alex would say something about them. Anything at all.

It was noon and still no text. Liam was sitting on the floor of his dorm, staring at his phone like it meant anything.

  
Alex had probably forgotten: Alex was leaps and fucking bounds ahead of him. Alex was in the White House right now. Alex’s mother was the goddamned _president_. And what was Liam? A confused kid in Nowhere, Texas just trying to get his classics degree. Of course there was nothing.

Just then, his phone dinged, a text from Alex. Liam scrambled for it, his fingers shaking as he opened the message. He read it with hungry eyes, like pixels on a screen could fill him.

**Hey, man. What was the name of our AP lit teacher??**

Liam blinked. Oh.

**uhhhhh mr heffers i think.**

**anyone special for valentines day lol**

Immediately after sending the text, Liam regretted it. What the fuck was more desperate than texting your friend-with-benefits about their romance-day date?

Alex responded quickly, and every second that he was typing was another second Liam couldn’t breathe.

**Eh. Never really dated someone before. Not gonna start now.**

**Anyways thanks gtg**

And Liam wanted to fucking scream.

That was it. He deleted the conversation and buried his phone under a mountain of shitty throw pillows. Because if Alex thought he had never dated, then what he and Liam had had—the midnight kisses, the coordinated class schedules, the fucking matching ties to prom—it meant nothing to him.

_Liam_ meant nothing to him.

From that day forwards, Liam had worked to put Alex out of his mind. Anything to move on from the brown skinned boy with fire in his eyes.

And eventually, he did move on. He dated other people, fell in love a couple of times. He found Spencer, and hit a turning point where he actually _hung up_ on Alex in favor of the man in front of him.

So, he got over him.

Until a million e-mails surfaced, and the headlines were filled with the name he had seen scribbled across pop quizzes and group projects, and Liam was forced to rethink everything he thought he knew about the Texan boy in the White House.

——

The days passed in a blur after the news. Liam felt trapped, out of the loop, hopelessly dodging details about just what bones fractured in Alex’s body and which blow was the one that really ended him. His boss excused him from a week of work without Liam even asking. He sat at home, staring at his phone screen like a text from Alex would magically appear, instead of dozens of spam calls from news stations and startup journalists.

The funeral was televised. Of course it was. Alex was an American all-star, brains and brawn and everything inbetween, a pioneer of representation in the White House. A man so full of life could not leave it quietly.

  
Liam had been invited to the service, and he would have gone, honestly, he would have, but his daughter needed someone to take her to Girl Scouts and Liam had a life here, a child, a _child_ , and that meant sacrifice. That meant he didn’t get to say goodbye.

Liam sat in bed beside his husband, their curtains closed against the sunset. Brianna was asleep down the hall. They watched on their small mounted TV as a crowd of thousands gathered around a Washington DC graveyard, a little roped off area of green making a sanctuary for the family and the casket. The casket, because that was all Alex was now.

Alex’s mother spoke words prepared by June. His father led a Spanish prayer that Liam couldn’t follow but hoped God would hear anyways. A priest spoke of his accomplishments, his bravery, but there was so much left out. This hour-long service could never hold all that Alex was, the eighteen years he lived before his spotlight, the varsity jackets and bad haircuts and failed APUSH tests and sloppy kisses in Liam’s basement.

June and Nora each placed flowers on the casket. June was crying. Nora looked like a ghost, her brown skin gone gray and her eyes sunken in. God, how could someone zoom in on this and live with themselves after? Liam hoped the cameraman felt more disgust in himself than anyone had ever felt before.

Finally, Henry stood from his chair. His arm was in a sling, his face bruised and a long line of stitches running down his throat and disappearing beneath his collar. His hair was brushed and his coat was pressed, but the damned cameraman cut into a close-up, and Liam saw sunken-in blue eyes brimming with tears, a trembling pinch in the tight corner of his mouth that Alex had kissed so many times, charted, mapped.

Spencer’s hand found his. Liam gripped it, hard, a lifeline.

Henry limped to the casket, like every step pained him. His left ankle was braced. Liam had read earlier that the hospital had barely let Henry out to attend, but Liam supposed that when you’re a prince, anything is possible.

Henry touched the wooden lid gently, like it was fragile skin. He whispered a few words that Liam couldn’t made out, pressed a long kiss to the wood where Alex’s lips would be. A single tear fell from his eye as he pulled away. The Princess Beatrice had to stand to help him back to his seat, because his leg started to give out. Another tear fell, then another, in time with each step, and Liam’s entire chest ached. Thankfully, the footage cut away just as Henry started to crumble.

Maybe this cameraman wasn’t all bad.

They lowered the casket, the priest recited a blessing, and just like that, it was over. Twenty-eight years buried into the ground, like every other skeleton that would never again be heard from. A million ideas that would never be had and a million words that would never be said.

Spencer shut off the TV with a click, plunging them into darkness. Liam could just barely make out the curve of his jaw, the way his brows knit together.

Liam was hit with a wave of gratitude so strong it might have drowned him. Spencer was right there, _right there_ in front of him. Henry would be going home to an empty bed tonight. Liam scanned his husband’s silhouette, his outlines in the shadows. He prayed to God above that he would never lose him.

Spencer led their nightly prayer, that night. His head was bowed, his hands clasped with Liam’s as he asked the darkness and beyond to help the First Family through this and bring some comfort, anything at all, to Henry as he stepped through that brownstone door.

At the end, as always, Spencer asked God to keep their family safe another day. Liam focused on it with his entire being. He could already feel the weight of his fear bearing down on him, crushing his lungs, looming like a dark cloud over their bed. He needed their prayers answered more than ever.

Liam clung to Spencer as they fell into sleep. He dreamt of a Letterman jacket and a mouth that tasted like his dad’s stolen beer. He woke up with the feeling of Alex’s cheek beneath his fingertips.

His memory, then. That was what he had. Not whatever Alex the media was going to project for the rest of the century. Not the bland portrait on the walls of the White House, and not just a few sentences in a history textbook about the representation that the 2020 election brought Americans.

Liam was going to remember Alex. He was going to remember the real, rude, stupid, genius, complicated Alex Claremont-Diaz. The fire in brown eyes and the sound of a confident laugh and the taste of stolen Maker’s Mark staining his mouth for weeks after the fact.

And Liam swore that as long as he breathed, he would never, ever forget.


	2. Zahra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao y’all are not mf ready for what I have planned for henry I mean it’s gonna GET YALLLLLLLLL

Zahra should have fucking been there.

Now. On a logical level, she understood. She understood that he wasn’t her charge anymore. Even if he had been, she was not strong enough to stop steel. She wasn’t stupid, she had a fucking masters, she knew. She _knew_.

And yet, staring at that Texas kitchen table that she’d eaten dinner around so many times, the one where she would stay up late with Ellen, drafting campaign plans until their eyes went too dry to see, she felt the gap more than ever, a gap made of barbecue sauce and secret glasses and stolen government documents.

She ran a hand over the dusty tabletop, the grooves in the wood, the water stain rings from cups without coasters. The bright green paint stain on the left corner than had been there since June spilled her easel in 2003. Zahra knew she would be back in this house once Ellen ended her second term. She just didn’t know it would be like this.

With a shuddering breath, she sat down and opened her laptop, her filing bag, her notebook with lists full of things she didn’t want to do. She had flowers to order, playlists to make, speakers to hire. She’d just fucking gone through this, barely a month ago, but the permanent headstone was finally finished, and next week there would be a memorial service where it would replace Alex’s temporary grave marker. So now it was Zahra’s job to do it all again.

She couldn’t keep him alive, so the responsibilities of his death fell on her.

Hours ticked by as she made phone call after phone call, accepting dozens of condolences and trying not to think too hard about anything she was doing. She even made a playlist of Alex’s favorite songs. She had been given a list. She didn’t need it.

Without meaning to, her exhausted fingers hit _play_ on one of the songs, some random pop number from Alex’s high school days. It was one of the ones she’d never let him listen to in the car. She would switch over the station with a hard _No_. and continue their drive, reveling in the minute satisfaction of disappointing him. She used to smile, seeing him pout in the backseat through the rearview mirror.

  
Why hadn’t she just let him listen to his stupid fucking song? Three minutes of her life spent in mild annoyance, that was all it would have cost her. And yet she made it her mission to steal away little snippets of his happiness. She always just assumed he would have more.

But she wasn’t there, and now he was gone.

She shut her laptop so hard the table shook. She worried briefly that she cracked the screen, but it didn’t matter. With the grim tabs she had opened, it would almost be a blessing.

A floorboard creaked behind her, and Zahra whirled around, hope sparking in her chest. It was always nights like these, where she would bury her face in her hands while campaign notes stared up at her from the table, when teenage Alex would sneak out of his room to pour over her stacks upon stacks of plans and papers. Looking over her shoulder, she half-expected to see a wiry teenager, barefoot in sweatpants and glasses.

But there was nothing, just shadows cast by the dim hall light, dust catching the moonbeams. An empty space, cold, undone.

Zahra couldn’t stand it anymore. She stood and stalked to the guest room she was staying in without bothering to push in her chair.

——

Zahra woke up exhausted. Laying in bed, she tried to gather herself, make a list of what the fuck she had to do today, a hundred tasks for the dead boy who used to stay in the room across the hall.

Her phone had ninety-three new e-mails, seventeen missed calls, about a thousand news alerts, and a single **Good morning** text from Shaan. She replied in kind, blocked everyone else, and got up to begin her awful fucking day.

——

“So, are you thinking tea roses or full ones?”

The florist’s happy voice grated Zahra’s ears. If her hair wasn’t tied back into a braid, she would have used it to cover them.

”Full,” she replied in an even tone that felt fake even to herself. “Do half white, half red.”

The florist nodded, taking notes on the counter’s paper pad. The hundreds of bouquets around them filled the room with a dizzying aroma. Zahra had to get out of there before her head fell off her shoulders.

”Alright, and is there anything else I can help you with, today?”

Zahra scratched _flowers_ off of her list that felt infinitely long. And it only took a three hour appointment to do it.

”No,” she said through gritted teeth. “Thank you.”

The florist finally released her from the chains of petals and pollen with the promise of a digital receipt and a complementary bouquet upon return. Zahra trudged out to the parking lot, checking and double checking that the flowers were being sent to the right zip code.

She sat down hard in her car and focused very, very hard on not turning on the radio, preserving this delicate neutrality she had crafted.  
  


She backed out to the road and left.

——

  
Plans.

Music, settings, time frames.

Plans. Notes.

Refreshments. Tablecloths.

Pages and pages.

Pictures from the photo album, stained with tears, sent into the funeral home to be blown up for all the world to see.

Plans and notes and maps and charts, all laid out for the dead.

——

Zahra didn’t see Ellen or Leo more than once or twice, even though they were all in that big, empty house together. Maybe they were avoiding her. Maybe she was avoiding them. It didn’t matter.

——

Her therapist insisted on doing sessions over video call while she was in Texas. Zahra hadn’t wanted a therapist at all, but when she won the presidency Ellen had made it mandatory for all of her closest workers, despite Zahra’s endless protests.

”How are you feeling?” Dr. Astrov asked, her voice tinny from Zahra’s laptop speaker. Zahra was holed up in her room, sitting on her bed with her laptop balanced on her knees.

”I’m—“

”You’re not fine, Zahra. No one in your position should be fine.”

Zahra rolled her eyes. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel.” She knew she sounded like a petulant kid, but she didn’t care.

”No,” Dr. Astrov said, “but I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. So be honest with me. How has this week been?”

Zahra ran a hand down her face. She said, “Shit. I’m planning everything, just like always, and I don’t fucking want to.”

”Why don’t you want to?” Dr. Astrov’s voice was way too kind for the situation. Zahra wanted to break something, wanted to feel knives scrape under her skin until everything inside her was released. Softness was not her forte.

”Because it shouldn’t be my job, and I don’t want to coordinate a second funeral for a dead kid when I already went through the bullshit of the first one.”

”Then why don’t you pass it off?” Dr. Astrov asked. “You could always just refuse Ellen and have someone else do it. I’m sure there are dozens of other capable people on staff.”

Zahra shook her head. “No, I know, I just...it’s like I _have_ to.”

Dr. Astrov folder her hands in front of her. “Because you feel responsible,” she supplied.

Zahra just shrugged.

Dr. Astrov continued, “You were in charge of him almost his entire life. It makes sense that you would feel responsible for his death, as well.”

”None of this makes sense, Astrov.”

”It doesn’t _feel_ that way,” she corrected, “but there are some parts of this that are logical, and some parts that are illogical. You need to start seeing reason where it is and letting the indescribable stay indescribable. You have a need to order and control everything, and it’s destroying you. Because, Zahra, you could not have controlled this. Thinking that you could have will only cause you harm. Do you understand that?”

Zahra huffed and looked away, focusing on a piece of chipped wall paint, because if she looked down at her screen she’d fucking cry and she was determined to keep the burning tears inside until dark. That was part of her order—function during the day, shatter at night.

”Zahra. Do you understand that?”

Zahra sniffed. “Yeah,” she said flatly. “I understand.”

”Do you? Because it seems like—“

Dr. Astrov’s voice cut off as Zahra shut her laptop and tossed it to the end of the bed. She huddled her knees to her chest and watched it bounce, then stop. She imagined her therapist trapped inside, forced into silence until Zahra opened her laptop again. A few months ago, the thought would have brought a smile to her face.

Restless, she slipped on some sneakers and crept out of the silent house. She hadn’t been here in years, but she still remembered her way around, so her walk to the liquor store and back was quick and easy.

She sat back on her bed and uncorked her bottle of whiskey, took a long drag.   
  


Every time she would go out for a bottle of wine for her and Ellen, Alex would be waiting at the door, asking her for just one glass, come on Zahra, please?

She always said no. She should have said yes.

With a glance out the window, she realized that the Sun had gone down and shadows had overtaken the suburbs of Austin. Finally, darkness had fallen.

And Zahra let herself break.

——

Another call, another e-mail. Another item checked off of a list she never wanted to make.

She knew it wouldn’t have helped, but maybe if she had been there, she wouldn’t have had to.

——

One morning, only a couple of days before the memorial, Zahra trudged out of her room in slippers and a robe and a two-day-old braid that she had no intention of redoing. Her immediate thought, just like every morning, was of what she had to do. Because there was always something else.

She opened the door, cringing at the loud creak. Walking down the hall, she noticed something was off, but it took her a second to pin it down.

It was the door. The door to Alex’s room, which had remained stubbornly closed since his death, was just barely ajar.

Zahra tiptoed to the wooden door. Slowly, she pushed it open.

Ellen sat on the twin bed, her hair unbrushed and her clothes rumpled. She was facing away from Zahra, her head bowed over something in her lap. The silence in the room was stretched thin, fragile enough to break with a single touch.

Zahra entered, closing the door behind her with a soft _click_. Ellen’s head lifted at the noise.

”Zahra?” She asked, her voice scraping and raw.

”Yeah,” Zahra confirmed. “It’s me.”

The silence stretched on. Ellen took a shuddering breath, let it out until her body seemed to sag. Slowly, she turned to Zahra.

In her lap was a cheap trophy, the kind that’s just plastic painted gold, in the shape of a star. The name _Alex_ was scrawled across the bottom in all caps, the letters uneven and shaky.

Ellen sniffed. “He won it in third grade,” she said. “For the, uh, school spelling bee. June was second, and she beat him at regional, but that was the first time he ever won anything.”

Zahra crossed the wooden floor and sat down next to her friend on the navy quilt. It was overwhelming, the amount of Alex in the room—the _Star Wars_ posters taped to the wall, trinkets and medals cluttering shelves, dusty stacks of books standing in the corners. Zahra felt more out of place than she ever had before.

”He was gonna try for Congress,” Ellen continued. “He told me last November. He—he said he talked with the new Veep, and that they clarified there was no specific rule about royal family members being in the House, and that it would be hard, and it would probably take tons of tries to even get on the ballot, but he wanted to try anyways. Because ‘fuck the odds’. That’s what he said.”

Ellen met Zahra’s eyes. They were so purple they almost looked bruised, rimmed with pink and creased wrinkles.

”’Fuck the odds,’” Ellen repeated, her voice cracking.

”Ellen...”

Ellen wiped her face. “I’m sorry—“ she gulped. “I’m sorry, I just—I _can’t_ —“

”Ellen,” Zahra repeated. “Do you want to go downstairs? I can make breakfast.”

Ellen shook her head, and finally, she was crying. “No,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to eat anymore. I don’t want anything. I just—I want my _fucking_ baby back.”

She bent over the trophy, then, cradling it to her chest like it was glass. Zahra put a hand on her back. She didn’t know what to do when the President was breaking down in front of her.

”I know,” she said, although she had no idea what she was saying it about. “I know.”

”No, you don’t,” Ellen said into her knees. “You—you’ve never lost a child. I would have died for him. I _should_ have died for him.”

”Don’t say that,” Zahra said. “That’s not true and you know it. June still needs you, okay? Everyone still needs you.”

Ellen straightened. Her eyes were painfully intense as they met Zahra’s, like broken glass with the edges just a little too sharp for anyone’s comfort.

“I shouldn’t have been president,” she said. “He would have been in Austin, that night, not New York. He would have just taken the I-10 to an apartment, and he would have gone home, and that fucking car would have hit someone else. He would still be here. He would be _right here_.” Her voice fell to a whisper. She ghosted her hand over the pillow, barely even touching it.

Zahra felt tears choke her throat. She pushed past them. “Ellen, _stop_. You’re destroying yourself.”

”I am!” She exclaimed, her eyes flashing and desperate. “I am, I always have been, I started the minute I got that fucking Congress internship. I never even _talked_ to him anymore. One good thing, one bad thing, that’s—that’s not a conversation, that’s a fucking game show. He was my son, and I barely knew him when I was in office. I mean, it was right in front of my eyes, everything about him, and I just never saw. Zahra, I never _saw,_ and now he’s gone, and it’s my fault, and I should have been there, I should have protected my baby. He was my _baby_. He was my—he was—“ She broke off with another sob.

Ellen leaned into Zahra, and Zahra found herself holding her, folding a former world leader into her chest and cradling her shaking head underneath her chin. “I should have been there, too,” she whispered. “But I wasn’t. We weren’t. And now...”

Ellen cried into her shirt. Zahra scanned the room, the mementos of Alex’s life held together by scotch tape and glue dots. This was what she had lost. A room painted green and a spelling bee trophy and a congressman who would have changed the world. But they hadn’t saved them, and now it was all just a dream.

Eventually, Leo found them, and he took Zahra’s place, whispering into Ellen’s hair and rocking her back and forth on what used to be her son’s bed.

Zahra floated downstairs like a ghost. She felt detached from her body, a memory of who she used to be, watching herself from afar.

She picked up the notepad she had left on the table. Without reading it, she could pretend this was just another day on the 2016 campaign trail, and Ellen would come down with a cup of coffee and an over-eager teenage politician on her heels.

She scanned her list, and to her surprise, realized there was only one item left:

_Keep history out._

Zahra blinked down at the letters in front of her, written in a handwriting that wasn’t her own. What the hell did that mean?

She studied the dot of the _i_ , the curve at the end of every letter, and she recognized the neat words. June wrote this, she must have tacked it on when Zahra wasn’t looking. But what was she trying to say?

And then she remembered. She fucking remembered.

She had heard this before, the last time she helped plan such a large event. The wedding.

——

“I think we’re almost done,” June said, pulling a pen out of her disheveled bun to mark off a note on her list. “We’ve got transport, music, processions, speakers, and everything else is coordinated with Shaan, right?”

”Yup,” Zahra had said. “I’ve already handled press coverage and public appearances—“

”Wait,” Alex said from his spot at the table, dressed in a sweatshirt and an engagement ring and still so _alive_. “So the press is gonna be there for, like, all of it?”

”Duh,” June replied. “It’s a royal fuckin’ wedding. Did you forget you’re about to be a Duke?”

”God, that’s so weird,” Alex muttered, scrunching up his nose.

Zahra shrugged. “More frightening to me. But it doesn’t change the fact that this is quite literally a historic moment for both countries, and the world is going to want a bite.”

_They never deserved you, kid. Not an ounce of what you gave them, the tons of yourself that you threw out to the universe. Not a single taste._

“Isn’t this whole thing gonna be—what, seven hours and fifty-four minutes long?”

”On the dot.”

”So can we have just _one thing_ to ourselves? Just one part?”

Zahra stared down at the names of news stations in front of her. ”I mean, Alex...”

Alex had reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “Zahra,” he said, his voice soft, “We hid ourselves for nine entire months, okay?”

”Did a shit job of it,” June laughed.

”Shut up! Listen, I’m so excited to be making history and letting everything be public, but I just want a few minutes with Henry at our own wedding. Just—just the first dance. Please. Can you get the reporters and everyone out for the first dance? Then they can come back in and fuck it all up and we’ll put on our nice press smiles for everyone. See?”

Alex demonstrated, and as much as he pissed her off, he had a damn good camera smile.

She sighed and pulled her hand away.

_I should have held onto you._

”I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise much, but...”

Alex stared at her with his stupid puppy dog eyes.

“But I’ll get you a dance,” she relented.

Alex smiled again, a real one, the kind that crinkled his eyes just like his mother’s. Despite her stony exterior, Zahra felt joy bloom in her heart.

”Thank you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Really. It’s...you’ve helped a lot. With all of it.”

Zahra pulled up CNN’s phone number.

”You’re really doing something different, this time,” she said as the phone started to ring.

”I am,” Alex agreed. “And I’m doing it for myself, ‘cuz I’m a selfish little shit. For once, I’m keeping history out.”

——

Not a single camera was allowed within a hundred feet of the gravesite.

——

The memorial was quick, about as long as the service itself had been. Zahra didn’t pay attention to any of it. She was on her phone the entire time, anyways, making sure the whole thing ran smoothly for the tiny audience that they had.

As she kicked out some sick fucks trying to sell their _RIP FIRST SON_ merchandise, she passed the stone. Everyone else was still in the reception room, they hadn’t seen it yet. Zahra was the first.

She approached it slowly, cautiously. Up close, it was beautiful—a simple marble slab with geometric carvings around the border. It had his full name, his birthday and awful, horrific fucking death day. And beneath that, it read three words to summarize an entire life:

_History was made._

”Oh, Alex,” Zahra whispered, touching two fingers to the engraving. “I’m sorry.”

She felt herself start to tear up, and it was daytime, but she let it happen anyways. She stared at those three words as the history of twenty-eight years rose in her chest and spilled out of her eyes.

Leo found her and led her back to the lobby. He helped her clean her makeup, redid her hair with expert hands. He was talking, but Zahra hardly heard it. Same for the priest, the speakers, one of Alex’s old classmates who had been invited back.

Finally, somehow, it was over, and Zahra found herself stuck in traffic on the same damn interstate she had driven Alex and June over a million times, taking them out for ice cream whenever their parents fought too loudly. The sun was setting behind her, casting deep oranges and reds over her dashboard.

History. It was marked in the _Helados_ stains in her backseat, in the _Claremont for America_ thermos in her cup holder. It swelled in a plastic trophy and a dusty old table that had been thrifted in the nineties. History, history, history.

The sun went down and gave way to night. Zahra parked her car in the driveway. She walked through that house of memories, the stairs where she had told Alex about his mom’s campaign plans, the couch where she had helped him with trigonometry homework, the railing where she had sat him down and explained what a divorce was.   
  


She climbed into her bed that was not hers and let the silence envelop her.

History.

It’s what he made, it’s what she had.

And she would hold onto it until her fingers wore down to the bone.

The moon rose, and Zahra let herself fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wasn’t my fav but Oscar’s is next and boy howdy it’s a doozy  
> Anyways comment sluts


	3. Oscar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah :/  
> Also I know Oscar and Ellen split up when Alex was 12 but don’t worry about it just pretend I’m right

Oscar’s coffee tasted bitter in his mouth. He drank it anyways, desperate for caffeine. Soda might be a more flavorful option, but it wasn’t exactly becoming for a congressman to chug an orange _Fanta_ while debating the livelihoods of countless Americans. So, coffee.

He settled into his desk, the one decorated with little American flags and pictures that felt like needle-points through his heart every time he looked at them. That’s why he kept them there—he wasn’t like the other politicians, who lived completely separate lives on and off the Senate floor. He needed to feel, to be human, in order to do his best work. He needed to connect with his own soul in order to connect with the millions he spoke for.

Speaking of those millions...

He picked up the day’s first file with a mildly arthritic hand, the one he insisted was fine, and no, Raf, I don’t need to go to the doctor. The papers were some mindless bullshit, something about infrastructure costs in New Jersey, only sent to his office so he could look over the new budget. He cast it aside.

An overview of a bill he’d already voted on, a few internship applications. Same nothing as every other day.

But sometime around ten, he picked up something that wasn’t nothing. A new bill, one he hadn’t been introduced to yet, but whose information he had seen printed in a dusty file hidden under a bed in DC, lifetimes ago.

The Texas file.

Okay.

Okay.

Okay.

Oscar really, really wanted to take back that ‘keep emotions in work’ principle.

A lot.

Really, really a lot.

But, no. He had to do this. What was a congressman if he couldn’t look at gerrymandering reports for a state that wasn’t even his?

Gently, as if the paper would crumble beneath his fingertips, Oscar leafed through the pages. He let out a bitter laugh—it was almost the exact same information that Alex had kept in that damned file. The motions he had protested for, the ones that Oscar’s fellow senators had dismissed because it was too extreme, too progressive, just too _much_ to completely redraw Texan districts—they were all laid out in front of him, under someone else’s name. Because of _course_ they were.

Oscar skimmed the plans, but he already knew what they said. By the time he reached the end, he didn’t know if he wanted to throw up or punch someone or both. The words started to swim in front of him. He slammed the file shut and leaned back in his chair, breathing in the stale air that was always a touch too cold for his Mexican blood.

A year. No, more. More than a year had passed since it happened. Everyone was—was back on their feet, moving, running, working, _living_. They had to be. They were all too important. But if his family—June, Ellen, hell, even Leo—was anything like him, they weren’t just okay again. Every single day, Oscar felt the heavy weight of his life’s empty space over his head. He tried to smile through it, joke like he used to, and most of the time, it worked. No one ever suspected anything was off. But sometimes, that joyous veneer cracked, and Oscar was left reeling for purchase.

This was one of those times.   
  


He rubbed his hands down his face, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes until spots danced across his black eyelids. He wanted to fall into them and disintegrate.

But, no. He was at work, and he was a congressman, and he didn’t get to clock out for another six fucking hours. He would do everything his numb, frozen mine possibly could.  
  


He could call Ellen. They’d been on better terms, somehow, ever since the funeral. They didn’t burn each other out anymore—Ellen’s fire had dimmed, a little, just like Oscar’s. It was a miracle neither of them had flickered out.

But what Oscar needed wasn’t someone darkened and low. He needed someone who could keep this flicker going inside of him.

With a sigh that Oscar had to keep from turning into a pained groan, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and made a call.

”What’s up, shithead?” Came a familiar voice over the receiver.

”Raf,” Oscar said. “How fast can you meet me in DC?”

——

The answer turned out to be nine hours. Oscar’s plane landed just after eleven, DC time, and Raf was waiting at the airport with a two coffees and a disgustingly greasy bag of _Five Guys_.

They settled into a cab. Oscar gave Raf a rundown of the bill proposal as they drove to a hotel, held back tears as they got their keys and trudged into Raf’s room. Raf sat down hard on the bed, and Oscar fell into the too-firm armchair next to it.

”So,” Raf said, “what’s the plan?”

”What plan? What can I do?” Oscar huffed.

Raf took a sharp sip of coffee. “I mean, what are you gonna do to get this fuckin’ bill passed? You didn’t plan on just letting it slide through, did you?”

Oscar blinked. He hadn’t really thought that far ahead.

”I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, I think we need to appeal to the public more than the congressmen. The House is what I’m most worried about, but if we can rally the citizens, they should protest enough for it that the Republicans will have no choice.”

”Yeah, but even the Democrats might think this is too much,” Raf replied. “I mean, think about this from a smaller perspective. You’re restructuring _all of Texas._ And it’s for a good reason, I agree, but it’s a hard sell for some of the idiots in the House who can’t see the big picture.”

Oscar hummed, turned his empty coffee cup around in his hands. “And there’s still getting—getting Alex’s name on it.”

A heavy air settled over the room. They both knew it was coming, but to talk about Alex was something else entirely. Even after all this time, Oscar had trouble forcing out the words. They were shaped wrong in his mouth. _Alex_ was a name full of life, of fire. It was not made to be confined to the cold box of death.

“Yeah,” Raf said, his voice low, his eyes trained on his feet. “It’s gonna be hard.” He took a shuddering breath. “But we can figure it out once we manage to pass the bill. It doesn’t matter ‘til then.”

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it again. The raging, fiery part of him wanted to form a plan, here and now. It wanted to grab the new asshole Republican president and shake her by her perfectly-pressed lapel until she signed the bill on the spot and stamped his son’s name on top in thick black letters.

But Raf’s jaw was twitching in a way that Oscar knew, and his eyes were still, too still. So Oscar gave into his quiet melancholy, the kind he could shoulder and work around.

He tossed his empty coffee cup over his shoulder. Raf looked up as it clattered to the floor.

”Right,” Oscar said. “Well, I feel like shit on a stick, and there’s a fully stocked minibar in here.”

Raf gave a weak smile. “It would be a shame to put it to waste.”

”Exactly,” Oscar said as he stood and crossed to the fridge, opening it and selecting the most expensive whiskey he recognized. “And we are not wasteful people.”

”I mean, we’re not good people, either,” Raf muttered, but he didn’t stop Oscar from pouring him a glass.

”Never said we were.” He raised his overly full glass, and Raf did the same. “To being shitty assholes who do everything wrong.”

Raf chuckled. “Amen.”

Oscar took a long swig, and hoped the fiery taste would be enough to keep him alive until morning.

——

When the memories hit Oscar, he didn’t try to run from them. He let them roll through his mind in waves, let them drag him into the depths of what he thought he could feel and then further still, and prayed he would have enough strength to pull himself back up.

Laying on his back in bed, three and a half glasses of whiskey swirling through his veins, Oscar bobbed up and down, floating through memories of _Helados_ and mock-trial prep. But when his mind drifted back to that damn Texas file, his head went under, and he submitted to the current willingly.

——

It had been an average Thursday night—June, holed up in her room like every other teenage girl, talking with friends or reading magazines or whatever. Ellen, working late, as always, which forced Oscar to come home and stay with the kids. And Alex, sitting at the scraped kitchen table, illuminated by a single overhead light, hunched over homework like the fate of the world depended on getting question twelve right for AP Chemistry.

Oscar didn’t feel like floating through the empty rooms alone. He drifted into the dim kitchen. Alex looked particularly focused tonight, almost distressed. His bottom lip was chewed and red, his glasses crooked on his face. His brow was furrowed in a way that was far more Claremont than Diaz.

Oscar drifted behind Alex, peering at his work over his shoulder. His eyes widened.

”That doesn’t look like homework, kid.”

Alex shot up, scrambling to cover the papers with his scrawny, fourteen-year-old arms. His panicked eyes met Oscar’s and he sighed, giving up.

”It’s not,” he relented. “Mom left some of her stuff behind, so...”

”So you went through your mother’s official government documents and stole confidential information?”

“It’s not confidential!” Alex protested, but his words died in his throat when Oscar reached around him and pointed out the label on top of a paper, reading just that word. “Oh.”

Oscar sat down across from Alex with a grunt, the kind his dad always told him he’d make once he had kids, which he should have believed at the time.   
  


Alex’s eyes followed him in suspicion.

”Well,” Oscar asked slowly, “what do you think?”

Alex stiffened, clearly surprised. He shuffled some of the papers around and took off his glasses, like there was someone around, watching him at work.   
  


He had always been ready for the eyes of the world.

”I mean, I like the idea of the bill,” he said, “but I think it’s kind of...ineffective. I looked over the data, and if they upped worker protections, it would hardly cost any more. I don’t know why they’re lowballing it so much, when it wouldn’t make a dent in the budget and the policies would be way harder.”

Oscar sighed. It wasn’t like he didn’t agree, but...

”In politics, sometimes you’ve gotta compromise yourself,” he explained. “The point isn’t always about doing what’s right. Sometimes, you’ve just got to get as many people on your side as possible, by any means. Honestly, that’s most of it.”

Alex deflated a little. “So mom and you...y’all are just letting people go unhelped? To make some rich white dudes agree with you?”

Oscar shrugged. “It’s that or the bill doesn’t pass.”

”But—but you can’t _know_ that,” Alex stammered. “Maybe you can convince people, if you point out the data.”

”Alex, it’s not about—“

”Well it should be!” Alex interrupted. His eyes were angry, now, Diaz lighting him up from the inside. “Why can’t they just _see_ that? It’s right in front of them!” Alex gestured to the papers spread out on the table.

Oscar felt his forehead wrinkle, and he knew the creases would last. He had always admired his son’s righteousness, even in the face of controversy. He had worried for years that politics would quench that fire, but Alex had proven him wrong time and time again. Now, his worry was that Alex would burn himself out trying to light up a wall of ice.

Oscar’s mouth settled into a grim line. “I know, _mijo_. But you gotta think about what the other side sees. They see extra expenses going to people who don’t deserve them, because if they just worked hard enough, they could protect themselves and their own jobs. They think it’s all merit based.” Alex opened his mouth to protest, and Oscar lifted a silencing hand. “And I know that’s not the entire truth, but it’s the part that they see. It’s not a lie, it’s just...a fragment of the whole. So your mom and I, we have to appeal to that fragment, and try to shape the rest of the truth around it. If we don’t, they’ll never even see a little bit of our side.”

Alex’s brow furrowed. Oscar could see his gigantic brain working, digesting the information, measuring it up against Alex’s tiny reserve of life experiences. Finally, he asked, his voice small, “Am I gonna have to do that? Tear apart the truth?”

And there it was—the disappointment that Oscar had never wanted to see for his kid, laid out between them like the papers on hardwood.

”Sometimes,” Oscar said. “But I think you can do better than us. You’re honest, Alex, alright? Honest as they come, only after Santa Maria and her son. If there’s anyone who could be an exception, it’s you.”

Alex started to smile. “Still, I don’t think calling congressmen assholes will help my case.”

”Who have you called an asshole?”

Alex blushed. “Jonathan,” he muttered. “In AP Gov.”

”Of course you did,” Oscar laughed. Alex joined in, a bright sound, unscarred and full of potential. A laugh made for the many.

”So, you’re—you’re not mad?” Alex asked. “About the papers, not the asshole thing.”

”I mean, I’d have done the same thing, probably. With the kid, at least. But I mean...” Alex’s face fell. Oscar forced his face back into seriousness. “These are government documents, kiddo. You can’t just steal them. I get why you did what you did, but—“

The sound of front door opening cut him off. Alex started frantically gathering the pages and stuffing them back into the filing organizer.

”Those Louisiana senators are fuckin’ idiots,” Ellen called from across the house. Oscar heard her kick off her shoes and head upstairs, towards her office. “Does anyone know where my union papers went? I got my ass wiped on the floor today for forgetting them.”

Alex met Oscar’s eyes. His gaze was too desperate to ignore.

”I took a look at them,” Oscar called. “I’ll give them back in a bit.”

”Gonna fucking kill you, hon!” Ellen called, before she slammed the door behind her. Oscar mentally prepared himself for another night of fighting.

But it was all worth it when Alex’s face broke into a crooked grin.

”Thanks, Dad,” he whispered. He shoved his glasses back on and skittered upstairs.

Oscar watched him go, then re-organized the files that Alex had entirely undone. That much fire could never fit in a box, he supposed.

Oscar had been right, that day. Alex had never once let himself be constrained, never burned himself out or lead himself towards utter destruction.

Maybe, if he had his son to blame for his own death, Oscar would feel a little more whole.

——

The next day rolled through with two hangovers and a million drafts of a single statement. The one after that brought phone calls to at least three hundred different mayors, asking about their worker attitudes and capacity for protests. The following week held e-mails and plans and papers and data, drawing up dozens and dozens of different Texas re-scramblings. Whenever Oscar closed his eyes, gerrymandered districts floated past his vision.

With eight days left until the Senate gathering to vote, Raf had gone out to lunch with the Virginia senators to persuade them. Oscar was holed up in his office in the capitol, sending statistics and data and fucking _numbers_ about real human beings to anyone who would listen. Maybe once, he would have started his message with _I know this is extreme, and I am willing to compromise_.

But Oscar was a different man, now. And compromising really wasn’t in his system anymore.   
  


——

Oscar made his coffee every morning methodically. One cup of original breakfast blend, a quick dash of peanut butter creamer. Maybe some Maker’s Mark, if he was feeling adventurous. Or deadened.

The fiery taste was familiar on his tongue. The waves crashed over him, and he knew why.

——

The lake house. Years ago. Yesterday.

Almost everyone had gone to bed. June and Nora were asleep in their shared room (Oscar didn’t know what the hell was between those two, but he didn’t want to press, so he let them room together anyways). Henry, in a shitty little bunk too short for his lanky frame.

But Alex and Oscar—wide awake. After all, insomnia was inherited.

Cicadas chirped in the trees as Oscar opened a bottle of Maker’s Mark, sat down heavily at the porch table. Alex sat across from him, his face weary but content, his brown hair washed silver by the bright moonlight and the small lantern on the ground. His smile was lazy, his jaw strong but relaxed. The last traces of baby fat had dissolved, replaced by the slightest of creases on his forehead.   
  


Alex was really, truly a man.

Oscar poured Alex a glass, slid it to him across the tabletop. Alex took a grateful sip.

Making his own drink, Oscar said, “Your mother always liked wine, but I knew you’d appreciate the finer stuff.”

Alex huffed. “Don’t know if I’d call this ‘fine.’ I bet you got this from CVS.”

”Hey, the where doesn’t matter. It’s whiskey, so it’s good. Drink up.”

Alex laughed and obeyed. “Henry likes wine, too. What is it about whiskey and wine people that makes them hook up?”

”The ‘W,’ son, I don’t know,” Oscar replied. “I’ve been with rum girls, too. Only people I won’t date are vodka people.”

Alex nodded. Swallowing down more of his drink, he said, “I’ll pound a vodka shot or two, but people who just sit there and drink it are nuts.” A pause. “Sometimes I get Henry vodka-drunk for fun. It makes him...flamboyant, let’s say.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “I think that would be homophobic for anyone but you to say.”

”His words, not mine.”

A long moment passed in the dark. Oscar felt the warmth of the whiskey move through his body, unfurling any remaining anxious knots. He loved the lake house, loved the privacy and nostalgia of it all. It reminded him of his boyhood in Mexico, swimming in the Gulf and all of its little feeder streams. This American knockoff was the most he could show his children, but it was more than enough when they were there.

Oscar’s eyes flickered to Alex’s left hand, curled around his drink, the gold band on his ring finger clinking when it collided with the class.

Oscar drained his glass. “How’s it going with Henry?” He asked. “Y’all still doing alright?”

Alex smiled again. His eyes softened. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s great. We’re thinking of getting another dog, someone to keep David company. He’s getting old, but, you know. Never hurts.”

”Good, that’s good,” Oscar said, and he meant it. But he saw the worry in Alex’s eyes, the way his shoulders tightened. “Hey. You sure it’s all good?”

Alex took a breath. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, it’s great. It still doesn’t feel real, getting to wake up in the same room as him. Even after—Jesus. Holy shit, I’ve been married for sixteen months.”

”Yeah,” Oscar said. “It just hits you sometimes.”

Alex nodded, but his smile started to fade. “But I get worried, sometimes. We’re not perfect, y’know. We argue and piss each other off, and I know that’s supposed to happen, I just...” His eyes flickered to Oscar briefly. “I don’t know. I’m worried we might still fall apart. Even after all this time, and how solid I feel about it, you and Mom—y’all felt solid, too, right? And it still ended. You didn’t think it would, I mean, y’all had _two kids together_ , but it did anyways. And now...”

Alex trailed off, but Oscar knew what he was thinking. Oscar had set up a good life around a good woman, and now he was alone, making laws and loving someone who could never match him again.

Oscar pushed aside his glass, folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Way I see it,” he started, “everyone’s got a little bit of fire in them. Some more than others. And if a love’s gonna work, y’all’s fires have to feed each other without burning out. Your mother and I, we fed each other, but it was out of control. It was a wildfire, and we both got burned.”

Oscar looked up to see Alex staring at him, his eyes thoughtful and attentive. He continued, “But you and Henry...y’all are each other’s kindling, I can see it. You lift each other up. You’re better together, because you don’t just light each other up, you have the right kind of blaze. Y’all are a controlled burn, alright? The kind that, as far as I’ve seen with my old-man ass eyes, never runs out of firewood. If there’s anyone that’ll last, it’s you two.”

Alex’s face was still a little unsure, so Oscar added, “Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but that prince looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s happened since his great-great-grandad colonized India.”

Alex laughed. “I don’t quite think that’s the timeline.”

”India’s not even under their control anymore, why should I give a shit?”

Alex rolled his eyes and drained his glass. He cast his gaze towards the moon, high in the sky.

”Alright,” he said. “I think I’m gonna go to bed. You alright out here?”

Oscar nodded. Alex stood, turned back to Oscar for just a moment. “And thanks, Dad,” he said.

When Oscar married Ellen, he didn’t think his heart would ever swell more than when she called him ‘babe.’ But even now, after all these years, all of his accomplishments, ‘dad,’ was by far his proudest title.

Oscar winked. “All good, Your Grace, Duke of Wessex.”

Alex laughed, flipped him off, and was gone.

Oscar looked out at the lake, the trees. For a short, rare moment, he felt better than okay.

He poured himself another glass and watched the fireflies bob around the branches.

——

Senate passed it. Raf was surprised, but Oscar wasn’t. With the endless phone calls and e-mails and mild blackmail threats, it was bound to happen. Of course, most of the Senators didn’t think it would make it past the house, even the ones that voted for it.

Which was why Oscar had one week to work his way through Texas and appeal to every man, woman, and child. Raf was making a quick stop at the capitol of every state they had marked as a possible sell, trying to convince moderates and centrists to side with them.

Oscar was putting out ads, doing interviews, _anything_ to get this fucking bill on the radar. By the end of the day, he was so desperate for someone to just _listen_ that he was quite literally going door to door in neighborhoods he knew were politically active.

After the tenth door in a row slammed in his face, Oscar was feeling nauseous. Alex would have knocked on that door until it opened again and forced the homeowner to listen with only the fierceness in his eyes and the unburdened truth in his words. But Oscar was not Alex, so he stepped off of the porch and headed back to his hotel.

He had a home here, once. But not anymore, and never again.

Sometime around sundown, Raf’s contact filled up his phone screen, and Oscar answered straight away. Raf’s face on the video call was haggard but optimistic, like all those late nights winning over voters.

”We’ve got a yes from one of the Florida house members,” he said without greeting, “and I think I can get the rest over without too much fuss. McKee, at least, is close to tipping, and I think she’ll finalize it if I show her how much oil outsourcing she’ll get from the new districts.”

”Mm,” Oscar hummed. Raf stopped.

”You don’t sound too excited, man,” he said. Oscar didn’t reply, just shrugged. “Today didn’t go so well, then?”

”That’s a fucking understatement,” Oscar muttered. “Nobody wants to even _listen._ It’s like they shut down minute they hear the word ‘gerrymandering.’ What good is a Texas bill if we can’t even get Texas on board? Without the citizens pressing them, no way the House members are gonna vote yes.”

”What’s your strategy been? Maybe you’re just...I dunno, going about it wrong. It’s been a while since you’ve been a Texan.”

Oscar sighed. “I mean, I’ve got stacks and stacks of fuckin’ data, I’ve just been showing people that, trying to make them see that the pros outweigh the cons. It’s just that nobody gives a shit.”

Raf makes a noise of disapproval over the phone. “Hate to say it, but I think you’re acting a little Claremont right now.”

At Oscar’s incredulous face, he continued. “Man, you’re Diaz. You’re the one who took the gamble on the gay politician who was half an inch from being molested. Numbers and graphs—that’s not you, and that’s why this isn’t working. You’re not actually doing this because you give a shit about Texas. I mean, it’s not even your state. You’re pretending this is about the math and the boundary lines, but it’s _not_. You’re doing this for Alex. Pretending you’re not makes you look fake and uninvested, and no one is gonna vote for that.”

And Oscar couldn’t disagree. Honestly, he knew Raf was right, had known for a while. If he wasn’t putting his soul into his work, he would never get his best results. It had always held true, and today was no different.

But he didn’t know if he was strong enough to bring Alex into this. He was used to riding the waves of loss, moving with the current and doing his best to keep from drowning. He didn’t know how to take hold of the reigns, turn the ocean towards his advantage.

He told Raf as much, and his grainy image loosened.

“It’s gonna suck,” Raf said. “But you can do this. Just—put something out there. Something public and _honest_. It can be as simple as a tweet or something, but as long as it’s true, it’ll be enough.”

Oscar bit his lip, but he knew Raf was right. “Alright,” he relented. “Okay. I’ll—I’ll do something. I don’t know what, yet. I only have three days.”

”Plan tomorrow, execute the next day, and the last day will give the citizens time to call and protest.” Raf made it sound so simple, a three-step plan, like it didn’t involve pulling words out of the darkest cavity in his heart and giving them to the world.

But it needed to happen, so it would. That’s what he told himself as he came up with a basic outline with Raf, as he fell asleep and dreamt of static.   
  


It needed to happen.

So it would.

——

The first day passed in a blur. He kept himself holed up in his hotel room, drafting and drafting, writing and rewriting. By the time he fell asleep, he had a speech, a venue, booths and numbers and e-mail addresses. It needed to happen, he assured himself. It needed to happen.

The next morning, he dressed not in a suit, but in a button-down and jeans, soft brown loafers. He wasn’t just another stick-up-his-ass congressman that didn’t really care about the citizens. He was Oscar Diaz, Mexican immigrant, chocolate milk lover, father of two. And that’s what the people needed to see.

His nerved were buzzing as he planted himself in front of the Texas capitol building. He knew it like the back of his hand, but he hadn’t been there in years. It felt like a whole new place, now, a setting on a television screen, fake and flat.

He stood between the two banners he’d had set up, listing all the senator’s open line numbers, e-mail addresses, even mailboxes. Phones and mail droppers were ready in front, and directions to the public library with free computers were on flyers that Oscar had set around in stacks. There was a small crowd already, a handful of Texans who either cared about their vote or had nothing better to do today. He was glad to see that it was a rather diverse group—after all, minorities were the most affected by the district voter suppression.

  
Oscar took the microphone, hoping no one would notice how his hand was shaking.

_This needs to happen. This needs to happen. This needs to happen._

He took a deep breath, and began.

”I lived in Texas for more than sixteen years. My old house is a seven minute drive from here. I’d work right in this building, doing everything I could to help the citizens of Austin and every other city in this state. Texas was home, and still is. But I’ve also seen firsthand how much conflict there is. It’s like every deal we make is a compromise that’s so central, it doesn’t make any change at all. That’s something that’s haunted me for years—how little difference I make.

”This bill, though, is a chance to make good change, the kind that will help everyone, not just one group. Suppressed voters will get a voice, businesses will have an easier time charting their territories. The cost of this restructuring will pay itself off in less than two years. But more than that, it is a legacy. My son, Alexander Claremont-Diaz, paved the way for this bill almost eight years ago. He gathered the information, lobbied for the bill’s construction, and defended his own cases once he graduated law school. But he was called ‘too extreme,’ and the bill was turned down.

”Now, my son is dead. This bill is all that’s left of the work he did on this planet. And I swear to Catholic God, I will _not_ see it butchered into something unrecognizable just so it’ll pass and appease a bunch of lazy old congressmen stuck in their ways.”

Oscar felt his eyes filling with tears, and he let them. Through the blurry sheen, he saw more people starting to gather, raising their phones and recording, making calls already. He tried to lock eyes with every citizen in the crowd, connect with them, show them they were _seen_ , damnit.

”My son endured hatred and slander for years, but he never stopped doing what he thought was right. He never let resistance put out the fire that burned in him. That fire is at the heart of this bill, and it burns for all of you. Each and every soul in this state.

”So I ask all of you, right now: are you content with how things are? And are you ready to let the last embers of a dead flame slip through your fingers? Or do you want to raise your voice for what you deserve, and press on the unfinished legacy of a man who cared for all of you like kin?”

A few shouts and whoops. A smattering of applause, more footsteps coming his way. People were watching, watching, watching.   
  


“My son is—“ Oscar’s voice broke. He took a choked breath and started again. He knew his voice was weak with tears, but he didn’t care. This needed to happen. “My son is dead. This is all that remains of him, and it’s all for you. Don’t let his ideas fall into the grave, too. Call your senators, e-mail them with the addresses, hell, write a letter with the paper we’ve provided and put it in the drop-box upstairs. Help yourselves. Help me. Help _Alex_. And do what you need to do.”

The crowd cheered and surged towards the signs, the banners, the paper and phones. Oscar walked off with a quiet ‘thank you,’ letting his tears fall as he fell into his rental car. He took a long moment to breathe again, just breathe, before he started it back up.

He drove without looking where he was going, acting on muscle memory of the city he knew in his heart. The radio played a quiet song, something old, _you will be queen and I will be king_. Oscar drove and drove as the sun set over Austin.

With the last rays of light, he found himself at his old house. He idled in the street, just staring.

Maybe Ellen and Leo were in there. Maybe they were out. Maybe it didn’t matter.

The light in Alex’s room was off. Oscar used to always hound him about leaving it on, saying he was wasting electricity, money doesn’t grow on trees. God, the things he’d give for that light to be left on again.

He said a quiet prayer over this house, for Ellen, for Alex, for himself. Then, he went to his hotel room. As he laid in bed, a tsunami came over him, and he welcomed it with open arms.

——

He was driving, driving, driving. Already far from Austin, going West, into the dying Sun. His car was packed full of everything he owned, and whatever was left was in the U-Haul truck behind him.

He’d been on the road for hours, but he hadn’t even thought of stopping. He couldn’t. It would tear him apart.

A new song came on, some shitty teen pop band. As he moved to change the station, his phone rang.

Fuck.   
  


It wouldn’t be Ellen or June. They had both sworn off calling him. June would probably come around sooner or later, but it was far too early for her to have changed her mind already. But Alex...

Maybe it was work. Maybe it was the retailer for his new house in California. Maybe it was some dumb telemarketer. No matter what, he had to answer.

He took a shaking breath, steeling himself as he lifted his phone to his ear.

”Hello?” He answered.

” _Dad_.”

A hard rock of dread dropped in Oscar’s stomach. “Alex,” he said, his voice low.

Alex’s voice trembled over the tinny speaker. “Dad, where the hell are you? Where’s all your stuff?”

”I’m—I’m on the road. I’m going to California.”

Oscar heard Alex give a sharp gasp. “You’re—you’re _leaving_?” He asked. “Just like that?”

”It wasn’t random, Alex. I’ve been planning, you know that—“

”Yeah, and you left without saying goodbye.” Alex’s voice was thick with tears. “You couldn’t have texted me? Left me a note, like, _hey, Alex, I’m about to completely fuck up your family_?”

” _Mijo_ —“

” _Don’t_ call me that.” Alex sniffed sharply. “You fucking left. You’re gone. What—what the fuck is your problem?”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. ”It was the only time I could go. I had to coordinate a new job, a new house, this worked best.”

“It worked best,” Alex echoed. “Yeah, leave while your son’s at a fuckin’ camping trip, don’t tell him shit, have him walk in and see half the shit in the house just _gone_ , no warning. Yeah. That works best.”

”Alex—“

”I have to go to _school_ tomorrow, Dad,” Alex sobbed finally. The sound broke Oscar’s heart. “I come home and you’re gone and twelve hours later I’m gonna have to turn in a fucking DBQ. How am I—how am I gonna do that, huh? _How_?”

Oscar could practically see Alex on the other line—barefoot, pacing the kitchen, chewing his nails down to the quick. His face would be blotchy with tears, his chest stuttering with every breath. Oscar’s throat went painfully tight thinking about it.

”I don’t know,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

”If you were sorry, you’d come home.”

Oscar took a trembling breath, shifted to another lane. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Alex was silent for a long, long moment. Oscar imagined him, finally standing still, gathering the words in his head. Making a list.

Finally, he said, “You know what? Don’t come home. I don’t want to see you again.”

” _Alexander—“_

”Delete my fucking number.”

And then the phone clicked, and Alex was gone.

Oscar dropped his phone. His hands were shaking too much to keep the car steady, so he pulled over. He shoved his palms against his eyes like he could force his tears back down.

He was free, now, free to burn as bright as he needed, but what had he just lost? What had he reduced to ash on his way out?

Night fell, and somehow, Oscar got back on the road.

A week later, he texted Alex.

A month later, he called him.

After three months, Alex answered.

And the ashes started to reform again.

——

Oscar resolved not to look at any news the next day. If the people rallied, they rallied, and if they didn’t, they didn’t. He wasn’t going to tear himself apart over it.

Raf flew in, drank with him, rambled about his recent hookup. Oscar was glad for the distraction.

His sleep was restless, dreamless. He clung to a piece of driftwood, and remembered, remembered, remembered.

He woke up Raf hissing his name over him.

”Oscar. _Oscar_.”

Oscar blinked, tried to remember where he was. “How did you get in?” He grumbled, more of an exhale than a sentence.

”Don’t worry about it,” Raf said, which made Oscar worry more. “Look. It fuckin’ passed.”

That woke Oscar up. He shot straight up in bed, clamoring for the phone Raf held in his face. He blinked sleep out of his eyes until he could read the bright headline:

**Amendment 41 Passed In House—Formally Named The Alexander Bill**

Oscar stopped breathing.

”Holy shit,” he breathed. “Did it...”

”Yeah,” Raf said. “Apparently so many people called the House that they had no choice. The Texas reps are super pissed at you, but you _did it_ , man.”

Oscar blinked, looked up at Raf’s beaming face. “But the—the name, I didn’t...”

Raf sat at the foot of the bed with a nonchalant shrug. “I had some spare time the other day. Made a few deals, a few threats.”

Oscar gaped at the man in front of him. “So you...”

”Don’t act so surprised. I’m old, but I can do shit, too.”

”No, it’s just...” Oscar felt something larger than himself swell in his throat, threatening to break through his muscle and burst out of his skin. Around the feeling, he choked, “Thank you.”

Raf’s smile in return was watery.

”Always. You know that, Diaz. Always.”

——

Back in his house in California, Oscar stood in the living room, staring at the modern windows and pure white couches.

The bill had passed with not a single change to Alex’s original plan, the one it had been built on. Already, Texas was redrawing its boundaries, doing anything it could to preserve equality and truth.

  
Ellen had texted him, after, a short **Thank you.**

Oscar had responded with shaking hands, then set his phone down, locked it away.

He slowly took a bottle of Maker’s Mark from his collection, twisted open the cap. He didn’t bother with a glass. He hadn’t in over a year.

Oscar raised his bottle to the Moon.

”Salud,” he whispered.

When he took his first sip, he felt his fire start to reignite, fueled by the embers that his son left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment mfs!! Anyways as a child with a dead dad it was very weird writing from the perspective of a dad with a dead child


	4. June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this one team  
> This one is about the After. When it’s not soul crushing anymore, but sometimes it just...hits you. Especially when you’re at a part of your life they should really, really be there for.  
> No relation to me graduating this year and not having visited my dads grave in months

June shivered in her cold apartment hallway as she waited for Nora to pick up the phone. With one arm, she tried to wrap her coat tighter around her. It didn’t work.

Finally, Nora answered. “What’s up?”

”Forgot my key,” June said through chattering teeth. “Let me in before my tits freeze off.”

June could hear Nora shuffle and start to walk on the end of the line. “That would be a damn tragedy,” she said.

June laughed. “Y-yeah, and then you’d—“

The door opened in front of her. Nora stood there, her phone still at her ear, barefoot in a stained sweatsuit.

”—have you pay for my implants,” she finished, hanging up the call and sliding her phone in her pocket.   
  


Nora stood aside as June pushed past. Closing the door, she smiled and said, “Uh, first of all, we’re splitting the cost. Second, I’ve got enough titty for the both of us, I think we can manage.”

June rolled her eyes as she stripped off her coat, her hat, her scarf. It wasn’t that cold of a day for Massachusetts, but June had that thin Texas blood, the kind that wasn’t made for the freezing temperatures. Nora seemed immune, but then again, Nora was a superhuman.

Nora slipped around June and down the hall to her office, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl as she went. June watched her go, then all but collapsed on the living room couch.

Nora and June had lived in Cambridge for years, since they were twenty-five. Nora had gone to MIT to get her PhD—Doctor Holleran, they called her now—and stayed as a part-time professor, part-time theoretical inventor. June had...well, June had followed her. Her new dream, becoming an author, was portable, just like she’d always wanted.

She shook the snow out of her hair, starting on the wind-blown knots, smiling at Nora’s stupid little jokes. They weren’t dating, exactly. They’d never defined it. They didn’t really get all mushy over each other, and June knew from Jane Austen and watching her friends that whatever falling in love was, this wasn’t it. But everyone had a match, some way or another. And Nora was hers. They made each other stronger, supports for the other’s independence. Whoever came and went in their lives, they would always be together.

And yeah, they fucked sometimes. And yeah, whenever Pez was in town, he joined their weird Not-Quite-Relationship. But intellectual matches and high quality strap ons did not a marriage make. And June was more than okay with that.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, Nora yelled, “Wait!” And the door to her office flew open again. She came running out, skidding to a stop behind June, leaning over the back of the couch.

“I forgot to ask about the deal!” She said. “How’d it go?”

June laughed, finishing off one knot and moving to untangle another. “She, uh, offered a pretty big publicity deal. Like, some crazy big advertising. My face on billboards and shit.”

Anyone else would congratulate her. Nora scanned the tense set of her shoulders with those genius eyes and knew better. She carefully removed June’s hands from her hair and started on the knots herself. June dropped her hands into her lap and let Nora take over.

Nora asked, “So, what are you going to do about it?”

June sighed. “I don’t know. I mean, yeah, it would be amazing to have a series in the public eye. She said it could even be up there with, like, Riordan and Grisha in terms of popularity.”

Nora whistled above her. A third of the knots were already gone. “And you don’t want that.”

”I mean...I want my books to be popular, but I don’t want that kind of attention on me. It’s too late to develop a pen name, though, not with the initial pilot already out and the sequel this close to release. My only other option would be to let this book fall through the cracks, but then if I don’t get enough sales, the publisher won’t invest enough for me to finish the series. So...”

Nora finished off the last of the tangles and starting braiding June’s hair, precise and deft. Since shaving her head down to a coiled buzz cut, Nora said she had sometimes missed the complex braids and styles she could weave onto herself. The solution? June.

”Well,” she said, “I think you should take it.”

June jerked her head up so quickly that her braid pulled. “Ow,” she said as she settled again, shaking off the pain. Still, her shock remained. “Anyways, what the fuck?”

”Think of it,” Nora continued, tying off the end of the braid. “Yes, you’ll be famous in writing. But let’s be real, how many red carpet events has Rick Riordan attended? If you saw him on the street right now, would you recognize him?”

”...Probably not.”

Nora walked around the couch and sat next to June. “Exactly. Yeah, you’d be in the public eye again, but not as much as a movie star or something. And...”

Nora trailed off. June cocked her head. “And?”

Nora met her gaze. “And, don’t you think you deserve it?”

June waited for her to elaborate. Slowly, her words carefully annunciated, she said, “You are, without a doubt, the best writer I’ve ever met. You’ve written for the fucking President, okay? And yeah, she was your mom, but she still had access to hundreds of professionals and she chose you. All your life, you’ve been most famous for your connections to other people—‘hey, that’s President Claremont’s daughter, hey that’s the sister-in-law of that gay prince.’ Isn’t it time you finally get recognized for what you can do?”

June didn’t answer. Because, truly, she didn’t know.

The thing was. The thing. Was.

She had never been in the spotlight. Never, even when she lived in palaces and government buildings. All her life, she had been connected to a family that was brighter than her, a warm glow next to a blazing fire.

That blazing fire had a name, once. Alex.

He had always been the bolder of the two, the one made for the world. That didn’t mean she wasn’t there—she just didn’t shine the same. When he was the lead in _Pippin_ , she worked on tech crew. When he scored the winning points in a lacrosse game, she was the yearbook photographer, there to capture every glorious second. When he changed the face of history in the White House, she was the words behind it all, the one there to back up the truth.

She had never minded it. Because when everyone’s eyes went to Alex, his eyes had gone to her.  
  


It wasn’t often she missed Alex, anymore. There would be times when it would hit her out of the blue—the smell of Texas barbecue wafting from the neighbor’s house could stop her in her tracks, and every man in chinos and loafers looked like him for just a second. Usually, she was okay, living as she always had, the leader of her own independent life. If he was still alive, they wouldn’t see each other more than a few times a year, anyways. Most of the time, everything was the same.

But it was rare moments like these—moments when he should have been there to catch the light, when suddenly she was thrust into a role she didn’t understand, when what she needed most was to talk with someone who had been bold and bright their entire life and could coach her through her few shining moments—that she felt overcome with it all.

Nora seemed to understand. She softened and stood, keeping gentle fingertips planted on June’s shoulder. “Just think about it,” she said.

Then, she left, trailing her hand over June’s collarbone on her way. The door closed again, and Nora was gone, back into the world of numbers and theories.

June ran a hand down her neat braid. Dark hair, dark eyes, she was a woman of shadow. She liked it that way. What was she supposed to do when, without any warning, the entire Sun had been taken away, and she was the one expected to glow in turn?

——

June and Nora didn’t club much anymore, not as women in their mid-thirties. Instead, they did things like lie on the ground completely topless, half wine-drunk, shitty eyeliner tattoos drawn on their bodies because they were bored and trying to bet who would do it better. As always, Nora won.

June stared down at the poorly-drawn sun on her forearm, crooked sunglasses and all. Nora’s hand covered it.

”Don’t look at that one,” she said. “I was running out of eyeliner. The penis is way better.”

And—yeah, there it was, an incredibly detailed penis on her pelvic bone. Because of course.

June slapped Nora’s hand away. “You don’t even get out anymore, babe. When was the last time you saw a penis?”

Nora rolled onto her stomach. “You don’t know me. Just last week I got flashed.”

”Wasn't voluntary, doesn’t count.”

”Tell that to Tom from admissions.”

June threw her head back and laughed, hissing slightly when her skull collided with the hardwood floor. Nora stood and poured herself another glass, and June knew she was about to go overboard because five glasses was her breaking point, and Nora knew that June that, because Nora knew everything.

Whatever. Drinking was drinking.

Nora drained half her glass in a few loud gulps. The wine running down her neck and over her boobs might have been sexy if she wasn’t making the most disgusting slurping sounds that June had ever heard.

Nora flopped down on the couch, nudging June’s waist with her foot. June was ticklish there, and Nora knew that. “So,” she said, “given it any more thought?”

”It’s been, like, four hours. You know I only get to have three real thoughts a day, I haven’t had time to conjure one up.”

”How many have you used so far?”

”Two.”

Nora took another gulp, and June cringed. “What, you gonna leave me like that? Or are you gonna tell me what’s going on in June-verse?” She asked.

June considered. “Uh, I don’t like that guys just have flatland between their dick and asshole, and they added a buck onto the bagel prices at Vinny’s.”

”That second one was just a observation,” Nora said.

”Okay, well, it’s one that’s _critical_ to my daily life, so fuck off about it.”

Nora hummed and set aside her empty glass. She’d gone a little cross-eyed. “I think the flatland is kinda cool. It’s like a canvas.”

”If I had a weird asshole flatland canvas, what eyeliner tattoo would you put on it?”

”I’d draw a vag,” Nora said without hesitation.

”What’s with you and putting ink genitalia in places where people don’t actually have it?”

”’S sexy,” Nora slurred, and June figured she had about thirty seconds before Professor Nora was out cold, and ten before she started doing that thing where all of her thoughts became muddled and she just started saying incomprehensible strings of shit as they unraveled in her brain.

”Wash your tits,” June said.

Nora poured some water over the wine stain as random numbers and equations fell out of her mouth, then slowed to a stop. Her head fell back against the couch, and she fell asleep in a puddle of wine and water and streaked eyeliner tattoos.

“Goodnight,” June said. “Hope you have a weird sex dream where you don’t get to finish.”

Nora snored in response.

  
June grabbed her phone and opened Pez’s contact. Trying very hard to keep her letters straight, she send a text:

**When are u g ona be in twon?? Me n Nora need to insprct the area betweenpenis and ashole thanks**

Pez’s reply came only a second later, despite the fact that he was in China at the moment.

**It’s a very interesting place to inspect, dear. Can fly in three weeks from tomorrow. Will bring a magnifying glass.**

June sat up and pulled her shirt back on. On a good night, a night long ago, she would have poured ice over Nora until she woke up, then called the rest of the crew and made them dance with her until morning. But she was older, and she was tired.

Other than her odd moments in the spotlight, it was nights like these when she missed Alex most. He should have been there, too. He should have been sitting next to June, posing with his tongue on Nora’s bellybutton and an eyeliner pen in the middle of a crude sketch of Nora’s own face. He should have been complaining about their shitty grocery store wine even as he drank an entire bottle. He should have been whining about Henry and FaceTiming Bea six times in a row until she finally responded with a ‘Christ, Alex, it’s half past five.’

June had always been the older sibling, but for God’s sake, she was only supposed to be two years older. Now, with her brother frozen in time, she was six years his senior.

Just a few years. It felt like a lifetime.

The light spinning in her head turned heavy and sour. With a grimace, she stood and walked towards the bathroom, a little stumble in her step.

The stupid fucking eyeliner sun stared back up at her. She was sick of it. She missed the darkness, the shadows, where she could live unseen and free.

She turned the lights off, the shower on as hot as it would go, and scrubbed until her skin was red and raw.

——

The next morning—

Well, the next morning she was hungover and taking care of an even more hungover Nora.

But the next next morning, she went to the corner store to stock them up on groceries for the week. Vinny liked to rearrange his shop, keep inventory rotating and fresh, so June wasn’t surprised when she came in and half the aisles had shifted.

She grabbed a basket and started filling it with a mix of vegan snacks and Cosmic Brownies and authentic paprika shavings. They were all mixed up, so she had to go searching, rifling through shelves and boxes that had yet to be unpacked.

Her fingers brushed over it in the jumbled frozen foods section, and the crinkling of the package was so distinct that just the noise was familiar, even after so damn long.

She pulled her hand out with a gasp, but the package tumbled out anyways and landed on the floor in front of her, an accusation at her feet.

A shitty purple bag of shitty frozen burritos laid on the tile, the kind that didn’t taste like meat or bean despite being advertised as both. And yet it tasted amazing on all those nights when Mom was working late and Dad wanted to show his kids some Mexican cuisine but was too tired to make it himself. June had sat at the dimly lit kitchen table with that package so many nights, eating with her hands and slapping Alex’s hands away from her plate.

  
They had eaten them together in the White House, even when there were professional chefs on sight. They would sit in the basement and watch sitcoms on June’s laptop and forget, just for a moment, how many eyes were on them.

Even after her mom had finished her second term, those fucking burritos were too good to forget. Whenever June visited Alex and Henry’s brownstone, they’d warm up a few and eat them over whiskey, catching up on life and slipping chunks of beef to David.

She picked up the package with shaking hands. She probably should have just put it back and gone on with her day.

Instead, she placed it carefully in her basket, like it was a baby, and started towards the checkout.

Vinny nodded as he scanned the bag. “Heard the new shipment had some Mexican stuff. Wondered if you’d want any.”

June flinched as he threw it into a plastic bag like it meant nothing, like it didn’t hold her dreams. She felt herself started to tear up, because sometimes it slammed into her in the weirdest of places, even now, even at a noon trip to the corner store.

She paid with cash, let Vinny keep the change. She started to leave, and he called, “What, no bagel today?”

And that one question was too much. Her skin felt like it was being lifted off of her, and a direct question had just ripped it all away. She was exposed to everything, freezing wind on her muscles, gravel pelting her lungs, shouts and car horns hitting straight on her eardrums. Before she knew it, she was rushing out of the shop and slamming her car door closed, and crying, crying, crying.

If Nora noticed June’s puffy eyes or the purple bag she hadn’t seen in years, she was kind enough to keep it to herself.

——

When she got the call, she couldn’t make herself believe that her little brother was dead.

The tiny firecracker that had chased her around the house for the remote, the angsty teenager stealing whiskey from her secret stash that was just as stolen, the young man who was so scared but so brave—that couldn’t just die. The blaze couldn’t be snuffed out so quickly, surely.

It wasn’t until she had walked in on Zahra giving the coroner Alex’s measurements for a burial suit that she really understood.

——

“Holy shit,” June whispered to herself a week later.

Nora looked up from the couch. “Hm?”

The words were right there on her phone, but they hardly made sense. “My fucking assistant publicist—they got an offer from _Oprah_. For the book. On—Holy fuck, they want me there on Friday.”

Nora sat up straight, her eyes wide. “This Friday?”

June nodded. ”This fucking Friday.”

“You’re gonna take it?” Nora asked, more of a command than a question.

June hesitated.

”You're gonna take it, right, June?”

June’s hands tightened around her phone. “I mean...”

”June.” Nora’s voice was hard, all fluff stripped away. Only the truth remained in her, the wooden Holleran core. “Do not pass up the biggest fucking chance you’ve gotten since your mom was President just because you’re scared. Pop a damn Xan and do it.”

”But—“

”No ‘buts.’ Either you’re sending an acceptance e-mail or I am, and you know how I write.”

June shuddered. Nora’s work e-mails tended to be made almost entirely of the word “shit.” It was a miracle she even still had a job. If she wasn’t the best mathematical mind MIT had seen in decades, she probably would have been fired ages ago.

”Fine,” June relented.

Her fingers shaking, she typed out her response.

——

The interview went well. Oprah was smiling, the audience was clapping. June’s dress had pockets where she could hide the fact that her hands were so clenched that the knuckles went white.

After discussing the book and successfully dodging questions about her personal life, the show ended, and June ducked backstage as quickly as possible. Oprah hurried past because she was fucking Oprah, she had shit to do, and June tried to gather herself.

Half an hour. Half an hour alone in the spotlight, and she could feel her nerves fraying beyond bearability. How was she supposed to fucking do this?

How did Alex fucking do this?

The speeches, the interviews, the rallies, the confessions and outting and _he is my choice_. How?

_How_?

June pressed her knuckles to her eyes and hoped she’d find out.

Spoiler alert: by the time she collapsed into her queen bed that really should have been a twin, she still hadn’t.

——

  
He was still there. All the time.

It was less like an ever-present cloud, more like a bolt of lightning that struck her at any time, harsh and without warning.

It struck her when a _Helados_ commercial played between Dr. Phil episodes, or when someone on the street yelled in rapid-fire Spanish, or when someone wore a familiar yellow t-shirt.

And now, when every single day she was slammed with light that he should have been the one to absorb, the lightning was relentless.

It struck, and it struck, and it struck.

And June was so tired.

——

“Seven days ‘til I get to destroy your living quarters,” Pez said over the phone.

June rolled her eyes from her spot on the bed, where she sat criss-crossed under the low light of her lamp.. “Uh, no, asshole. You’re doing dishes. And laundry. And taking out the trash, because it’s scary after dark.”

”Catalina, you are in your thirties, no one is going to molest you as you throw away your rubbish.”

”I’m sexy, Pez. They absolutely will.”

Pez made a terrified squeak and June heard the squeal of tires, then breathless panting. She rolled her eyes again. Pez had probably just narrowly avoided causing a ten-car pileup.

Still breathing hard, he said, “Well. Uh. Um. Talk to Bea recently?”

”No. Why?”

”Her new album is in the works. Maybe she could help you with the whole pushy marketers thing.”

June shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Music and fiction are super different industries. I feel like the whole point of being a musician is to make a name for yourself, while a third of all authors write under an alias.”

”Is that really the number?”

”Probably not. How should I know?”

Pez snorted. “Well, this is your area of expertise, dearest.”

”Wrong,” June corrected. “My area is reimagined Jane Austen romanticism in a contemporary fantasy world. Marketing is sort of a background thing.”

June could feel Pez roll his eyes. Desperate to break the mocking silence, and because the mention of Bea had put the name in her head, she asked softly, “Have you heard from Henry?”

Pez sighed. “I called him last week.”

”How’s he doing?”

“Same as always,” Pez replied. His blinker clicked to life, then died again. “We didn’t talk long. He said the dog is still sniffing around for David.”

”God, David really almost outlived the Queen, didn’t he? I would have sworn that thing was immortal.”

Pez laughed. “Yes, well, even fat beagles have to meet their overdue end. But, yeah. He seems to be alright. Misses David. Misses Alex. But alright.”

June nodded. It had been ages since the group had been together. It had been years since they were the Super Six. Bea was busy with her husband and daughter, and Pez was expanding the shelters, and everyone had their own lives. Henry’s had stopped, and no one was making him start it again. He didn’t text, didn’t call, answered only with quick words and tight smiles.

But he was alive. He was breathing. He was alright, and the ever-present knot in June’s chest started to loosen.

”Right,” said Pez, a muffled slap coming through the speaker as his hand tapped the steering wheel. “Got to go before I destroy another BMW.”

”Bye,” June said. “Go terrorize the streets of wherever the fuck you are this time.”

”Will do. Be good.”

”Absolutely not.”

Pez hung up on a laugh, leaving June alone.

She didn’t used to mind being alone. She still didn’t. But she used to like it, too.

——

The marketer was a bitch, and she just dyed her hair the ugliest shade of fucking blue, and June knew she shouldn’t judge but all she wanted was some scrap of anonymity to hide under now that her shield from the searing spotlight was decomposed and skeletal and this woman’s hair was ugly and she was a fucking bitchassfucker.

——

The burrito bag was folded carefully before it was placed in the trash.

Not thrown.

Placed.

——

“No it’s...no, yes, I know...I mean, look, the books themselves deserve recognition, I agree, but...no, I know. I know. Okay. Alright. I’m sorry. See you Tuesday.”

June hung up with her very, very pushy publisher.

”Motherfucker,” she huffed to herself.

——

The plane ticket had been booked before June even realized what she was doing. The flight was quick, she honestly could have driven. But this was faster, and it was time that was slipping out of her fingers, because the deadline for her decision was in three days and Pez was flying out in four and time was running the fuck out.

And now June was sitting before a polished headstone.

”Hey,” she started.

No reply.

”I, uh, got a new book deal. On top of the other one. It’s a, um, sequel. To the first fiction book. Which you don’t know about, because you only know about the memoirs. I haven’t told you about the other books. God, it’s been a while since I visited, huh?”

She picked at the brown grass beneath her legs.

”Nora’s doing good. She shaved her head. It’s really hot, you’d have been really into it. Hey, I hope you’re hanging out with David. Scratch his ears for me. And say hi to Abuela, and our old neighbor from Austin, she died a few months ago. Remember how she’d always make us those goodie bags on Halloween? The ones with the lollipops and the caramels? I haven’t thought about that in forever.

”But, uh, I need to talk to you about something. I guess. Not like you can hear me. Or maybe you can. Am I even Catholic? I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a church. I don’t think I’ve prayed since...”

”Anyways, I’m getting off track. Listen, I really, really love this series I’m writing. Like, it’s my baby. I’ve cried and puked and screamed over this, and I want to be able to finish it, but my publishers say we need to expand its reach before they can confirm more spots, and the marketers say the only way to do that is to put me in the spotlight, and. And I’ve never been there before. And I don’t know what to do.

“I might turn it down. Is it even worth it? I have all the money I could ever need, I don’t have to publish anything else. I could just write and keep it all to myself, send the sex scenes to Pez for peer review. But the thing is...I think I want people to see this. I never really got why you were so adamant about being a politician, but I kind of get it now. When you finally have something that could change the entire world or even just one life, it’s like it’s trying to claw its way out of your chest and into the world. And I feel like, for once, I have something everyone deserves to see. That I deserve to have seen.”

There was nothing. No sunbeam splitting the clouds to perfectly illuminate Alex’s name, no gentle whisper in her ear that would give her answers. No sign from the beyond of what to do. But as she talked, as she pulled at the dead grass below her and let her words spill out to the person who had always been able to understand them, her decision made itself.

”It’s not like I want the fame,” she said. “I just...I want to get my message out. I want the world to see what I’m showing them, for once. That’s all you ever wanted too, huh? God, I called you selfish and narcissistic for years over how much you played the crowd, but it was because of this, wasn’t it? The fame was never your goal, it was a...a byproduct, right? Spillover? I don’t know. All I know is you liked it, and I don’t, and I’m fucking terrified.”

And there it was. The truth of it.

”I’m really, really fucking scared,” she whispered. Tears pricked her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I don’t know how to do this. Mom never taught me, she only taught you. And I’m—fuck, I’m gonna do it, but I don’t know how, and I’d really, really appreciate it if you’d come possess me and make me say the right things on camera and shit.”

Silence, except for the constant thrum of the highway beyond and the gently rustling of wind through bare trees. 

June muttered, “Typical. Always leaving me wanting more. That’s how you pulled such a hottie, huh?”

Slowly, shakily, June stood, brushing the grass pieces off of her pants.

”I’m gonna do it,” she decided. “But you don’t get to laugh at me from Hell when I say something stupid on air.”

She pressed a hand to the headstone, quick, gentle, felt where it was warmed by the sunlight.

Then, she turned, left the circle of plucked grass, and started towards the airport.

A marble slab carved with her brother’s name watched her go.

——

Four days later, decision made, June bounced anxiously on the balls of her feet as she waited for Pez’s plane to land. Nora sat next to her, somehow lounging in the uncomfortable airport seat. At three in the morning, the terminal was almost empty, save for a few napping travelers. But June was buzzing.

”He was supposed to be here seven minutes ago,” she muttered.

”Walking takes time,” Nora reminded her. “Plus, he’s coming from England. He’s gonna have to wait for all the white Brits to stop clapping after the plane lands.”

June made a disgruntled noise and kept waiting.

Twelve minutes past the scheduled time, a group of people spilled out from the terminal entrance. June saw a shock of green hair over the crowd. Nora was on her feet immediately, suddenly just as restless as June.

Finally, Pez cut through the flood of people. He was smiling brightly, somehow unaffected by the jet lag that haunted the other passengers. His Gucci bag was slung over one shoulder, half-open and spilling probably very damning contents.

“Hello, ladies—“ he started.

June cut him off with her phone screen an inch from his face. He probably couldn’t read the headline that said, **June Claremont-Diaz Prepares To Release Next Book** , but she didn’t care, because she was already reading it for him.

”And,” she continued, “I’m gonna take the fucking advertising deal, and I’m gonna go do interviews on, like, every nighttime show you can think of, and I’m gonna hate it so much and I’m so fuckin’ excited.”

Nora gaped beside her. “June, why didn’t you fucking tell me?” She asked incredulously.

June shrugged. “Thought I’d wait ‘til we were all together.”

Nora blinked, then grabbed June’s face in both hands and kissed her. June smiled into it, and when Nora pulled away, she was beaming brighter than ever.

Pez coughed. Both girls turned to him.

”You’ll get your part later, Percy,” June said. “But for now, let a girl enjoy herself.”

He laughed, and so did June, but something heavy was settling over her. She wished Alex were here. A useless, fruitless wish. She knew that. But God, the party he would have thrown tonight. The lists he’d have made for her, directing her on how to catch the public eye and shun it when necessary. Nora and Pez felt it, too—the empty space beside them, the cold air that yearned to be warmed by the missing body.

Pez must have seen June’s throat rippling, because he pulled out his phone and said, “Well, come on then. Bea was such a fan of your last book, she’ll be pissed if we don’t give her a ring about this.”

Bea’s face filled up the screen immediately. She was in her house, lit up by the Sun. Her eyes widened at them. “Woah,” she said. “Am I missing something?”

June told herself to smile. She explained the situation, to which Bea promptly shrieked and punched the air no less than thirteen times. June laughed, but it felt far away, hollow.

Bea hung up after that, saying that her baby threw up and it was ‘very gross.’ Pez held his phone in his hand, still, staring at the empty call screen.

Nora blinked. June swallowed. They were all thinking the same thing.

Finally, June said, “Call him, too.”

Pez nodded slowly. He pressed a few buttons, and the phone started to ring.

After a long twenty seconds, Henry finally answered their video call.

He just looked...tired.

He blinked at Pez. It seemed to take him a moment to see Nora and June. A shaky smile found its way onto his face, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

”Hello, all,” he said quietly. “What’s the occasion?”

June smiled, too, something soft and sad. She told him what had happened, and only a minute ago she had been shouting happily with Bea, but now the lightning was striking, and she was starting to fry.

Still, Henry managed a grin. “That’s great, June,” he said. “I’ll be sure to pick up a copy.”

Silence hung heavy between the four people, the voicemail of the fifth, the memory of the sixth.

June started to say something, but Pez cut in and said, “We’ll let you sleep, mate.”

Henry seemed relieved. He nodded, and without a goodbye, he was gone.

God. Even after all this time, it was still...like this. June wondered if they would ever recover. She wondered how guilty she would feel if they did.

They cut through the cold, empty space and walked out of the airport.

With a few bad jokes and talk of Pez’s newest peacock-feather suit, which he had packed and was apparently more than ready to don for cocktails, they started towards the car. Pez slid into the back seat, June in the front, and Nora drove off over the Cambridge streets.

As gentle pink light started to overtake the stars, June knew one thing for sure—she was tired of darkness. It was comfortable, and it gave her a place to hide, but she was out of excuses, out of fucking time. There was no charming brother to shield her with shadows. Not anymore. So she was going to suffer through every minute of searing light, then she would go home and learn how to nurse the burns. And in return, her words would shine brighter than ever before.

_That was what you wanted, too. Not the spotlight on yourself. You wanted to see the way your work sparkled._

But he couldn’t. Not anymore, never again. So June would do it, instead, as best as she could. Even when it hurt.

The Sun broke over the horizon, and June was so, so tired. But still, she was awake, and she was in the light.

And that was enough.

It had to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have like a third of Henry’s chapter written already and it’s so good it’s so so fucking good I’m so excited to upload it  
> Anyways comment mfs!!! This one was a little more uplifting, I think, but hopefully I still hurt y’all so so bad


	5. Ellen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda doing a different route w this one, slightly different style than the previous chapters
> 
> ALSO!!!!! THIS IS H E AV I L Y INSPIRED BY “God Save The Blessed American President Mom” by zipadeea, it smacks, here’s the link, go read it it’s so fucking good  
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipadeea/pseuds/zipadeea

Ellen had never wanted Alex.

One was enough. She’d always said that. Her and Oscar had discussed it—the finances, the career choices, the emotional toll. All signs pointed to one child being the optimal number, no more. June was all she needed, all she wanted.

And then a drunken night happened, and Ellen was sick every morning, and the test was positive, and she didn’t know what to do.

She spent days, weeks, months mulling over it. An abortion was the logical answer. Stay on track, exactly how she’d always planned, let the numbers and the truth do the work for her and guide her decisions.

But she also felt something in her. With June, she felt like she could feel her soul growing in her body—something light and sweet, an airy feeling with every weird craving or painful kick. This was different. It was like something eating her from the inside, burning to be let out into the world.

And so she made a decision.

And named it Alex.

——

He was born not breathing.

Ellen had expected a cry. With June, she cried as soon as she was out. But as the doctor lifted Alex’s tiny body in her hands, his skin slick and red with blood, there was just...silence.

Ellen’s heart had stopped. The world around her turned to ice. She thought, if her baby died, she would die, too. She wouldn’t have a choice.

The doctor rubbed Alex’s chest, patted his back once, twice as he turned bluer and bluer. Finally, with a sharp push, Alex’s little lungs stuttered to life. And he didn’t just cry—he screamed.

They cleaned him off, handed her the little bundle, and she was filled with joy so bright she thought she could burst.

Alex had always been all-or-nothing. Fire or ice. Screaming or silence. Life or death.

——

Ellen had everything. A life. A husband. The goddamn presidency.

She thought, _this is happiness_.

She thought, _I’ve done it all._

She thought, _I will never lose this feeling._

She had everything.

And then Alex was gone, and her everything crumbled into dust.

——

Seconds passed after the news.

People called her, brought her food.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days.

There was talking. So much talking. Always talking.

Days, weeks, months.

Time didn’t exist anymore.

Years.

——

Years. How had it been years?

Her memories—they didn’t make sense, anymore.

His speech at the re-election felt like a lifetime away. His fifth birthday was just yesterday.

It had been Cars themed. His cake was chocolate, decorated with red icing, the shitty grocery store kind. The entire kindergarten class showed up. He was always the popular one.

He spent the entire day running around with his friends, playing tag, making up games. For one day, he was the boss of June, too, and she let herself be steered around the backyard by her baby brother. Ellen watched from the patio, standing with Oscar and all the other parents she didn’t really like. But it didn’t matter. This was all for Alex.

As Ted from down the street talked about his barbecue Tex Mex, Alex ran over to her, his curls bouncing, his fat cheeks risen in a bright smile.

So bright. He was always so, so bright.

”Mommy,” he’d said, and her heart glowed. “Is it time for ice cream?”

And no. No, it wasn’t. Ice cream was supposed to be an end-of-the-party thing, so that when the kids inevitably spilled it over themselves it wouldn’t be Ellen’s job to clean it up.

But Alex, her little birthday boy, was so excited.

And just like always, he was the one who broke the rigid beams of what was and wasn't supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to listen in on government meetings.

He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with a prince.

He wasn’t supposed to have ice cream yet.

But Alex was so strong, so smart, that ‘supposed to’ didn’t matter.

So she hoisted him onto her hip, smiling at his surprised giggle, and said, “Sure is, kiddo. We feeling like chocolate or vanilla?”

”Chocolate!” He exclaimed.

And Ellen was so, so happy.

”Alright. Chocolate it is.”

And off they went, like nothing could ever go wrong.

——

It took her a month to go into his room.

She hardly remembered it—the trophy, the pillow, the smell of Zahra’s shampoo.

(She didn’t remember much of anything from the first year.)

It was just like how he’d left it—navy blue walls, posters, medals, _Alex_.

On the nights when she couldn’t sleep, those terrible nights when Leo’s presence beside her felt like nothing but thin air, she would pull on her robe, venture down the hall, crack open the door.

Leo would find her in the morning, laying on top of his still-made comforter, sometimes asleep, sometimes wide awake. He would bring her coffee and coax her to the couch and not say a word. And with whatever tiny sliver of herself was left, she loved him for it.

——

She had never had the best memory. That’s why she was so meticulously organized—the planners, the calendars, it all kept her in line, in order.

But all the color-coding in the world couldn’t bring the memory of their last conversation to her mind. She knew it was at the airport, as he left Texas for the final time. She knew she had laughed, and he had smiled. Maybe dropped something. But why? What were they talking about?

What had they ever talked about?

Politics.

Numbers. Polls.

One good thing, one bad thing.

That was—that was nothing at all. They didn’t talk, they never really _talked_. She could only recall a handful of true conversations, of life, of love, of forever.

She knew his favorite color (deep blue), his favorite soda (cherry coke), his favorite person (Henry), but she didn’t know him. She didn’t know _him_. Twenty-eight years, she’d had the chance, but she was never there.

And now she never would be.

——

Alex—he had always been too much.

He talked too fast, thought too long, fought too hard. He was so much that he filled up a room before he even walked in. It annoyed Ellen, sometimes—she didn’t have time for all of that Alex. She was the goddamn president.

She would dismiss him.

Tell him, ‘go talk to your father.’

Close her office door.

Lock it.

Listen to his fading footsteps, push away any guilt. And work.

But sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes, she sat down and listened, watched his bright eyes and hands as they moved so fast they were just blurs. He would talk, and let all the _much_ flow out and lay between them, and Ellen would stare at it, at him, and think, _this is what I could have missed._

She held onto those times. She was never a great mother. But she had held onto him, sometimes.   
  


When the guilt crushed her, it was all she had left.

——

“Stop crying,” she told herself in a whisper. “Stop.”

She didn’t listen. The lights were off. She stared into the darkness.

”Goddamnit, stop.”

She couldn’t.

——

She didn’t do holidays, anymore. There wasn’t a point.   
  


She called June, wished her a merry whatever. Flew in for her birthday. Because June was so smart, so beautiful, and she had bloomed, she was a woman, now. Ellen held onto her. She wouldn’t let her go. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

But the Christmas trees, the Easter baskets, the decorations, the music—what good was it? It just hurt too much, when there was no one to barbecue for her, when the smell of cinnamon wasn’t wafting up from the kitchen where Alex practically lived during holidays. He loved to cook. And he was so good at it. She would poke her head into the kitchen and find him there, a child throwing flour at his father, a teenager kneading dough to some crappy song on the radio, a young man telling his fiancé to hand him the paprika, no, it’s the red one, why even conquer all those countries for spice if you don’t even know what’s what?

So June celebrated with Nora. And Leo gave her everything, even when that everything was nothing.

And Ellen didn’t do holidays anymore.

——

A year crept up on her. Or maybe two. It was so, so long. So, so much.

His shirts still hung in the closet, faded and coated with dust.

——

Her hair had gone gray. She didn’t bother dyeing it, anymore.

She was old.

He never would be.

——

The sun. It was warm on her skin.

She stood from the kitchen table, where she had been absentmindedly scrolling through the news. She walked towards the sliding glass doors, still stained with grubby fingerprints at the bottom, toddler-sized hands.

She opened it, slowly. Stepped into the backyard, the green grass. Breathed in the dry Texas air.

The sun was warm.

——

He had never been there when he was alive, not much. Two, three times a year. Why was he here, now, all the time?

He was standing in the living room, sitting on her bed, perched on the bathroom sink.

He was the wooden spoon in the left drawer, and the calla lilies in June’s butterfly garden, the ones he had picked and given to her for Mother’s Day in 2009. June had cried, and they had argued, and Ellen just wanted one good fucking Mother’s Day, dammit. So she gave Alex a twenty and sent him to get the best lilies he could find from the local plant nursery.

He returned with his thin arms full of pots and dirt and fertilizer. June dried her eyes, and together, they planted, all morning. Ellen watched from the kitchen, sipping her coffee, watching her children.

Her children.

Her child.

He was gone, yet the lilies still bloomed.

If she was strong enough, she might find some kind of metaphor in that.

——

Seconds hours days weeks months years. _Years._  
  


Two, four, six. Six years.

Six.

Fucking.

Years.

And yet it was 1998, and she was holding a blue bundle in her hands, showing him the living room for the first time.

It was 2005, and she was calling in to work, because her son was sick and she needed to stay home to take care of him. She sent the school a note written on Joe Biden’s memo. Fuck Joe Biden. Her son was sick, and his mother was there for him.

It was 2016, and his hand was on the Bible, and he was smiling so much, and she thought the weight of this moment, of this history, would crush her into fine powder that fluttered in the moonlight. Fairy dust, June had called it.   
  


It was 2020, and he was gasping on the rug, and everyone was holding him, and her son’s heart was there for the entire world to see.

It was 2020, and he made a speech.

It was 2020, and she was re-elected. Because of him. Because of him.

She shouldn’t have won. She shouldn’t have even run. She should have retired, been the mother that made cookies and was always there with a warm bed and a hot meal for her children when they needed her. Instead, the was the absent mom with heels clacking in the other direction and papers on her desk, stacked in piles so high they blocked the pictures of her children.

——

But.

——

But.

——

But, Alex wouldn’t want that.

——

He would have never let her step down.

——

He would have held her there with strong Diaz hands, and said, _change the world._

——

He would have given everything and more to keep her in the White House. He would have slit his own throat to build four more years of history. For her to wish for anything else felt wrong.

She would have said, _I need to stop and be a mother._

And he would have looked her in the eyes and said, 

_No._

She didn’t know much, anymore, but she knew that.

She knew that, because when he was seventeen and still reeling from the divorce, she had sat him and June down at the kitchen table, across from her, over some shitty pizza from the gas station down the road.

Her hands were clasped together, her mind the kind of calm that only came with practice. A still, glassy surface hiding wild currents beneath.

”Listen,” she started, and they did. “You both know I want more than just Senate. I’ve done as much as I can, there. They won’t listen to me anymore. But...but I’ve been talking with Zahra, and running numbers, and taking polls. And the ballot dates are coming up, y’all know that. And...”

She took a breath. She was going to finally say it out loud. The craziest, most outlandish idea she’d ever had.

”And I’m going to run for President.”

The room was silent for a long moment. The weight of her words settled over the room, resting on the light swinging above their heads.

June was anxious, Ellen could already tell. She was good at hiding her emotions, always had been, but her twitching pinky finger betrayed her. Ellen had known June wouldn’t be the most excited, but she only hoped she would say ‘yes.’

But Alex.

Alex.

Alex.

His face split open into the widest grin she had ever seen, his heart on his sleeve, outside of his body, no armor at all.

”Mom!” He’d laughed. “Oh my God, that’s awesome! When are you gonna start campaigning? What’s the budget? What’s your main policy front, because if it’s ecology then you’ve gotta choose something else, Randall already took that one. Do you know about your running mate? Do you—“

”Alex,” she said, and he quieted. “Inside voice. And I don’t have it all figured out yet. But no, I’m not doing ecology. And I’m starting soon. I’ll let you know.” She looked to the girl on Alex’s right. “June...”

June looked up from her own hands. Her face was still nervous, but...but there was something else there. Something stronger. Something Claremont.

June smiled. “Can I work on your statements?”

The weight in Ellen’s heart lifted, flew out of the top of her head and crashed out of the ceiling. “Of course, baby,” she said. “I want you on the campaign. Both of you. Do as much as you can around school, if you want. As long as the grades are above a 3.0, y’all are as much a part of this as I am.”

Three smiles, bright as the sun.

June pulled out a notebook from her bag, started writing, already gone in her own mind. Already sold on this, as much as she could be, and Ellen knew she would be okay. She would set boundaries, do as much as she wanted and no more. And that was perfect.

Alex reached across the table and grabbed her hands. His eyes were shining, sparkling. So, so bright.

”You are going to win,” he said. “And you are going to be amazing.”

”Alex—“

”Mom.”

Her highest title, better than President Claremont.

His face was set, so stubborn, so strong. He was so _strong._ He told her, “You are better than every one of those assholes combined. They’re all rich idiots who only care about the military and oil and how much money they can give to their buddies. You are a real, actual person, and you want to help real, actual people. You are supposed to do this, alright? This is going to be your legacy, the best one of anyone alive.”

_You were my legacy. You and your sister, you’re the best things I ever accomplished._

He slid his hands away. They were still smooth, then, not calloused and worn from years of work, pain, stress, tears. Blood.

He stood and walked around the table, hugged her. She held him back, fiercely. She held her child for a moment, a lifetime.

He pulled away, and his face was radiant. So was June’s watching it all unfold, already observing, creating.

”Mom,” he whispered. “You are going to be something incredible.”

——

She was already something incredible.

She was his mother.

——

June came for Christmas, that sixth year. Something about Nora’s grandmother being sick, and them wanting to have a quiet family Christmas. It was all noise, just like always.

She sat across from her, Christmas Eve, on the couch. She’d put the tree up. Hung the stockings, with Leo’s help. It looked like it used to. She was staring into the fireplace. Her hair was longer, Ellen noticed. Down to her waist.

”I like your hair,” Ellen said. June turned to her. “It suits you.”

June blinked. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Finally, she said, “Thanks. Uh, Nora likes to braid it, sometimes.”

Ellen nodded. She was tired. The words were heavy, rocks on her shoulders. Leo usually carried conversations, but he was upstairs taking a shower.

Somehow, she continued. “I’m glad you’re here.”

June’s face slackened, then slowly, slowly, slowly, found a small smile. “Me, too.”

A beat.

”I missed you,” she said quietly.

Ellen nodded. Around the space between them, the stocking they didn’t hang, the ornaments decorated by the hands of a ghost, she heard the truth.

Her tight throat loosened, just a little.

”I missed you, too.”

——

June gave her a clay vase, the kind that potters made in front of you for showcases. Ellen gave her calla lilies, uprooted straight from the garden in the dead of night on Christmas Eve, for her to plant in her apartment in Cambridge.

June smiled into the lilies, and she cried, and Ellen cried, and somewhere in New York, California, London, Texas, people were crying, too. All apart. All together.

”Thank you,” June whispered into her neck.

Ellen held her. She held her child so fiercely, and knew that she was not the one to thank.

——

Ellen filled in the empty space in the garden.

The empty space in the house remained.

——

But.

The days passed.

And the weeks.

And the months.

And the years.

And Leo was there for her, and June visited more often, and the Texas sun was bright as ever.

She hadn’t held him enough, then. But she would hold onto him, now. The one she’d never wanted. The one she had really, honestly needed.

_Alex_ , read the report card on the fridge, the Christmas Card sent from the brownstone seven years ago, the headstone so far away.

She had given him a name.

And he had given her a life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry’s chapter might take a couple weeks, I’m super fucking busy and his is gonna be super fucking long lol

**Author's Note:**

> Y’all mfs better COMMENT


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